


All In and Out

by lackadaisy



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Sports, Angst, Anxiety, Drinking to Cope, Emotional Baggage, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Famous Louis Tomlinson, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Football | Soccer, Friends to Lovers, Liam Payne & Harry Styles Friendship, M/M, Magical Realism, Mild Smut, Mutual Pining, Niall Horan & Harry Styles Friendship, Non-Famous Harry, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Pining, Psychic Abilities, Recreational Drug Use, Romantic Comedy, Romantic Soulmates, Sad Harry Styles, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Social Anxiety, Soulmates, Strangers to Lovers, Zayn Malik & Louis Tomlinson Friendship, lourry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:28:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 117,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26937415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lackadaisy/pseuds/lackadaisy
Summary: A world in which Liam is a psychic, Harry is a little broken, Niall is a romantic, Louis is a famous footballer, and Zayn likes to take risks. Oh, and soulmates are very much real.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Zayn Malik/Liam Payne
Comments: 38
Kudos: 176





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written a fic in years - literal YEARS - and suddenly got inspired to write this, so here we are. I just wanted to thank my friends Taylor, Erica, and Sabrina for reading over each chapter and not only giving me feedback, but being constant sources of support and encouragement. Without them, I doubt I would be publishing this at all. I hope you all enjoy the story!
> 
> Disclaimer: This is fiction. It does not mean to imply anything about the real lives of the real people who served as an inspiration for this. Also, while this AU!Louis plays for the Doncaster Rovers, none of the real Doncaster Rovers players are featured in this story. This piece names real places and organizations. No money is being made from this. You know the drill.
> 
> CW: This entire fic deals with issues such as alcohol abuse, emotional/psychological trauma, and anxiety/panic attacks. I add trigger warnings at the beginning of chapters that deal heavily with these issues, but it is a constant undercurrent throughout most of the story. 
> 
> And finally: Please do not repost or translate my work without my consent. Chances are, I won't consent to you reposting my work at all. But if you would like to translate it, please ask my permission and get my consent first. Thank you.
> 
> Enjoy this playlist I created for this fic as well:  
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4CosgVA3F81bw5ahKWwM6H?si=sMSxHKkPRraKM7xJc-YoSg  
> I've also placed each song at the specific moments they fit throughout the fic. Feel free to listen along!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry meets the new psychic in town and receives a shocking revelation about his soulmate.

Harry had known that this would be a waste of his time, had only done it for laughs, really, but he now realizes what a mistake it was to come here. He looks around the dimly lit shop, adorned with white fairy lights, deep red curtains, the sharp aroma of patchouli-scented candles, and shakes his head in disbelief. The faint hum of instrumental music plays from somewhere in the back, the background noise somehow enveloping him, dulling his senses. The plush cushions underneath him are stuffed with memory foam, filling in every curve and dip of his body. Everything about this place is meant to lull you into a trancelike state, mold you into a more malleable mind. _All the better to feed you with lies_ , Harry thinks to himself.

He eyes the door beside him, wanting nothing more than to run away. He watches the congregation of patrons and onlookers outside, who are, eerily, watching him back. He’s thankful at that moment for the one-client-at-a-time policy. Harry couldn’t bear the thought of sharing this suffocating space with even more suffocating people. The type of people who think that the alignment of Pluto decides your fate, or that the lines on your palm are indicative of your life’s story. Whatever the fuck that means. 

But he is trying to be optimistic. More open-minded. Niall, his best friend, recommended this place, and Harry trusts Niall — so maybe Harry ought to give it a chance. It’s not like any of this is serious, anyway. _Just for a laugh_ , he thinks. Or, really, it’s what he _has_ to continue to tell himself. In reality, his legs can’t stop bouncing and his palms are sweating and he can’t stop rubbing them on his thighs, trying in vain to rid himself of the nerves. He picks at the sleeve of his jumper instead, pulling at the loose blue thread, trying to calm his frenzied thoughts, and focuses all of his energy on glaring at the ugly piece of abstract art framed on the wall opposite him.

It started out like all rumors do, with faint murmurs and whispers carrying through social circles and slowly worming its way onto the internet. Believers and disbelievers alike began to trickle into the small town of Holmes Chapel, stumbling into this very shop, wearing their hearts on their sleeves, eyes wandering and lost, looking for hope, validation, answers. Harry and Niall had laughed it off in the beginning. Harry, especially, had never been the superstitious kind. He liked to plant his feet firmly in the realm of reality. No bullshit. No beating around the bush. He was honest, and he liked to surround himself with honesty — whether it be his friends, the music he listened to, the clothes he wore. Everything about him was direct and open. For the most part.

And . . . well, psychics? Harry had assumed that people were smarter nowadays, not so easily swayed or tempted by the cloak of mystery to allow a stranger to spew ominous, vague, recycled truisms in order to validate their decisions or dictate their future. He had thought that the days of hidden corner stores with their blinking ‘PSYCHIC’ signs had long disappeared — so it really did come as sort of a surprise to him when his hometown became the epicenter for this new craze. Trend? Rumor? Harry didn’t know what to call it. He only knew that it was ridiculous to even be here.

But he told Niall he would, and Harry never goes against his word. Plus, he’s not _too_ proud to admit that he’s a tad curious, especially since Niall himself had had a change of heart not too long ago after seeing the psychic himself. He hadn’t told Harry as much, but Harry knew it without it having to be spoken. Between them, that’s just how it was, kind of like having a second brain to carry around with him. He wonders what Niall’s painting looks like, and whether it’ll end up coming true. 

You see, that’s the bit that scares him. Because, what if all of this turns out to be true?

“Harry Styles?” A voice calls, draped in darkness, coming from the back of the shop. The previous patron slips past Harry with a small smile on her cherry red lips, hugging a piece of canvas close to her chest, as though it’s something precious, impossible to duplicate or recreate. Which…fair enough. He’s heard that the psychic’s paintings are marvelous, beautiful, enchanting, etcetera. You name it. Seems as though everyone around him has fallen for the newcomer and his work. Even if they don’t fully believe, the paintings have become quite popular. Priceless.

Harry stands, his hands still sweaty and slightly shaking. The girl gives him a knowing smile and nods her head, perhaps trying for some sort of reassurance, which only makes Harry scoff. It’s his own indignation that gets his feet moving forward, ignoring the way his stomach swoops while he navigates his way past stacks of blank canvases and easels towards the small corner of the store, where the faint outline of the psychic shimmering in the candlelight is waiting for him.

He pulls back the tapestry (velvet, nice) to reveal a man, around his age, with light brown hair as long as Prince Charming’s and eyes as deep and dark as milk chocolate. His hand clutches at the tapestry, taken aback by the psychic’s beauty. There’s a few awkward seconds where neither of them speak and Harry gapes, trying to remember how to breathe, while the psychic stares calmly back, as though assessing the situation carefully. Harry feels as though his skin is being peeled back layer by layer with that gaze, yet he can’t find it within himself to look away.

Finally, the psychic smiles and gestures to the loveseat across from him and the empty canvas, his movements fluid, relaxed. “Please, sit.”

Harry obeys and collapses onto the loveseat, the aged cushions sinking lower and threatening to swallow his entire body. The smell of mothballs and patchouli assaults his nose, but he somehow finds it calming. Grounding. It takes Harry a moment to come back into himself, his eyes wandering anywhere but the man’s face, cheeks burning hot in embarrassment. 

The psychic doesn’t say a word, but instead looks between Harry’s face and the blank canvas, contemplative, while Harry fidgets on the couch. It doesn’t take long before Harry can hear the soft strokes of a paintbrush against the canvas. He blinks in surprise and flits his eyes back to the psychic’s face. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m here?”

“Don’t need to.” His voice is smooth, reassuring. Almost honeylike. That, mixed with the soft ambiance of the shop and the impossibly comfortable cushions, causes Harry’s eyelids to droop a fraction lower.

“But . . . don’t you need to, like,” he licks his lips, “get a feel for my aura, or whatever."

The psychic, Liam — he finally remembers from the website — smirks. “That’s not how I operate.”

“Oh. Cool.”

“Plus, I already did.” Harry’s mouth gapes and Liam chuckles. “If it makes you more comfortable, you’re welcome to tell me why you’re here, though I’m sure it’s the same variation as everyone else.”

Harry bristles at that. “Actually, my friend told me I should come. I’m not really invested one way or another.”

Liam smirks, his thin paintbrush working quickly, yet delicately, over the canvas. His workspace is tidy, almost immaculate, which seems sort of odd for an artist. There are five wooden palettes on the table, each designated with its own array of similar colors - reds and oranges; greens and yellows; blues and purples; a wide variety of skin colors; and blacks, whites, and grays. A vinyl mat sets atop the table with a row of varying types of paint brushes. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever met an artist with so much organization. “You mean to tell me you’re not at all curious? Soulmates and all that?”

He’ll never admit it to anyone — not his mother, not Niall, nobody — but Harry is, in all honesty, _very_ curious. He doesn’t believe in it, can’t really afford to, but the concept fascinates him. It’s an ancient belief that has somehow transcended the tide of time, carrying on from Ancient Greece all the way into the modern day, unaffected and unchanged. The idea that an ancient god could split your soul in two and condemn you to spend your life searching for your other half — an endless, fruitless journey to make yourself complete — is both beautifully tragic and woefully daft. Harry has never felt the need to complete himself, least of all with another person, and doesn’t believe that anybody should. But the idea intrigues him nonetheless. He wonders if it’s because of this general curiosity that the myth continues to thrive. 

Harry rubs his neck, but scoffs. “No offense, mate, but I believe love should be organic. Honest. It’s something you work at. Nothing magical about it.”

“Never said it was magic.” Liam murmurs, too focused on his work to meet Harry’s eyes. “Sure, I get visions, and I share those visions with people, that could be considered magic. I don’t personally see it that way. But everything that happens after that is up to you.”

“But it’s a lot of expectation, yeah? You paint someone’s face and suddenly the entirety of my future is pinned on them, without their knowing? What happens if I actually meet them someday? It’s like premeditated seduction.”

Liam laughs at that. “I would argue that all seduction is premeditated, eh? But again, whatever happens after I paint them is up to you. You could meet them and find out they’re your soulmate in a non romantic way. I don’t advertise true love, or easy love, or love at first sight. That would be lying.” He smirks. “It’s never happened — not to my knowledge — but they could end up being someone you hate. Soulmate is a simplified way of thinking about it, when in reality, the person I paint for you is someone who has importance to your life, your story.”

Harry purses his lips and tries to change the subject. “So, um, how does it work, anyway? Like, these visions?”

“I call them visions, but they’re more like feelings. It’s hard to explain, unless you’re an artist?” Liam pauses and quirks an eyebrow at Harry, his tone inquisitive. Harry shakes his head, so Liam continues. “The best way I can explain it is like a puzzle. I can see _you_ and I can sense your . . . aura-” he stops, using air quotations around the word aura, “-and it’s like the pieces sort of click together. For some people I can see the puzzle more clearly, and for others it’s more difficult, there are more pieces to fit together. And it all sort of ends up on the canvas in the form of a person. Sorry if that response isn’t quite what you were looking for.”

“It’s fine. I get.” Harry doesn’t really get it, but Liam seems nice, and although he is most likely swindling Harry and running a bullshit operation, he can’t help but like the guy. “It’s one of those inexplicable talents. Like Mozart.”

He surprises a laugh out of Liam on that one, the psychic pausing briefly to throw his head back, eyes crinkling at the corners, before returning back to the canvas. “Yeah, I suppose so.”

The conversation dies into a comfortable silence. Liam works quickly on the canvas, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration and lower lip caught between his teeth as a violin crescendos in the background. It’s fascinating to watch him work. At one point, he pauses, glaring between his green and blue palette, trying to find the correct shade before picking up the smallest brush. Harry tries to keep track of all the colors he uses, but there are too many, so many that it seems impossible that he’s creating a person on the page. Harry has never thought of color when it comes to the human body, never really stopped to ponder how many shades and hues swirled and mixed together to bring humanity to life. It’s a strange, but nice, thought.

“Have you ever painted for yourself? Your own soulmate?” He asks, because the thought has been edging to the forefront of his mind for a half hour or so and won’t seem to go away. 

The room goes silent for a long time after that and Harry has the creeping suspicion that he’s hit a nerve. Liam continues to bring the brush to the canvas, seemingly lost in his work, his tongue jutting out a bit as he focuses. Harry almost believes that Liam didn’t hear him ask. Almost.

He doesn’t know how much longer they sit there, but it’s a while later when the psychic finally sighs, bringing his sleeve to his forehead and wiping away the sweat that’s collected there. He looks tired, but also satisfied, a small smile on his lips as he turns to look at Harry, who’s been busying himself by biting his nails. 

“It’s ready.”

Harry moves to get up, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of the painting, but Liam stops him. “Not yet. It still needs to dry. And it’s really better if you wait until you’re alone.”

“Oh. Okay.” There’s an awkward moment where Harry doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he stuffs them into his armpits. 

“The answer is yes, by the way.” Liam says, lips downturned, his fingers fiddling mindlessly with the ends of his paint brush, a smear of brown paint collecting across his thumb.

“What?” Harry is too focused on the canvas still sitting on the easel, a bundle of nerves solidifying in his gut and curdling his innards. 

“You asked me if I ever tried to paint for myself. I have. It doesn’t work.”

The sadness in his tone sounds so authentic that Harry’s taken aback. The entire time, Liam has acted and spoken in ways that seem so sincere and honest, but at the same time, it’s difficult for Harry to reconcile the person with the business that’s being run. How can a person who claims to show you your soulmate be honest in any way, shape, or form? Harry can admit, perhaps he came in with a few unfair preconceptions. Perhaps Liam truly believes in what he’s doing, whether the results are real or not. He still shouldn’t feel bad for the guy but . . . he does. 

Harry nods. “That . . . really sucks. Seems unfair, you know?”

Liam tries for a smile. “I’ve made my peace with it. I’ll just have to find my soulmate the old fashioned way.”

“Which is . . .?”

“Trial and error.” Liam responds, pouting his lip. “Gotta keep trying, know what I mean?”

Harry’s brows furrow without his meaning to. “Er, yeah, sure.”

No, he doesn’t know.

+++

Song: [Lonely Boy by the Black Keys](https://youtu.be/a_426RiwST8?list=PLLJm-ZDhWHYXEO_k3L6QLxMn5tPk9nRde)

He’s tempted, walking away from the shop, to dump the canvas into the nearest garbage bin and forget that any of this ever happened to him, forget that he’d ever been foolish enough to listen to Niall — who is known for being a starry-eyed, dopey, romantic fool. He should’ve stuck with his gut and avoided the psychic’s shop at all cost. 

Instead of hurrying back to his and Niall’s shared flat, Harry takes his time, enjoying the autumn breeze and the scent of death in the air, which sounds morbid, but Harry has always loved this time of year. It’s the season where old things go to die, prepping for the hibernation of winter, until spring, when everything is reborn. He loves the quiet whistling wind and the rustling of leaves, the scent of cider and roast in the air, the pinkening of cheeks, and the warmth of a good cup of hot chocolate between chilled fingers — one of which he orders for himself on his way home, carefully navigating the canvas into one hand. The barista gives him a knowing look, but Harry brushes it off, leaving quickly before anyone can ask questions. If there’s one thing he hates about living in a small town, it’s that people talk, and news travels fast, far too fast to be contained.

He trudges all the way back to the flat, the cursed canvas still in tow, unable to loosen his grip on it. He hasn’t looked at it yet, and it’s covered by a thin sheet of black tissue paper to keep straying eyes away. Liam told him he should view the painting in private, and he can’t help but agree. Viewing it in public would be far too embarrassing. Harry can’t stand the thought of strangers peering at his painting, gauging his reaction, judging him. No. It’s far safer to do it in the privacy of his own home.

The flat is dark and empty when he comes home, which is just as well. He didn’t want Niall here for the revelation, anyway. This entire situation is embarrassing, if he’s being honest. Here he is, twenty six years old, going to a psychic to tell him who his soulmate is. And the saddest part is, that no matter how many times Harry tells himself that it’s all fake, he knows there’s a small part of him that wants it to be real. He wants the stress and anxiety of dating to be taken away. He wants to know who he’s going to spend the rest of his life with, without all of the trial and error. He’s been dating since he was seventeen, and Harry doesn’t feel any closer to finding anyone worth keeping around, or any better at love. Instead, especially for the past few years, Harry feels as though he has somehow gotten worse, the mere concept of loving someone and being loved in return having become foreign. 

He used to love dating, getting to know a person, falling in love with every piece of them — the good _and_ the bad. He used to love the feeling of butterflies in his stomach and the slight tremble of his hands after a first kiss. Used to love all of firsts as well as the routines. But far too many heartbreaks and far too many scorned men later, and Harry has found himself closed off, unable to find a thrill in any of that anymore. He’s almost positive that’s why Niall sent him to the psychic in the first place. Out of pity.

In short, he’s stopped trying.

He sets the canvas against the wall, the crinkle of the tissue paper echoing in the empty room. This shouldn’t be such a big deal, but he finds himself exhaling a shaky breath, fingers trailing delicately along the edges. Before he can change his mind, he rips the tissue paper away from the canvas and lets it drop to the floor, revealing . . . Oh.

It’s Louis Tomlinson.

Harry can’t help but bark out a quick, high-pitched laugh of disbelief, his hand coming up quickly to muffle the sound. On the canvas is a smear of browns, tans, blues, reds, and whites, swirling together to create one all-too-familiar face. He can’t quite help the sharp intake of breath as he examines the painting, revelling in just how beautiful it is. The psychic somehow created this all without looking at a photograph for reference, yet the resemblance is uncanny, almost lifelike. The sharp cheekbones and rosy cheeks. The sea-blue eyes. The feathery brown hair. The thin, pink lips. Harry knows this face so well — almost too well. It’s unmistakable. 

Which is how Harry finds himself laughing uncontrollably, his arms clutching his sides, trying to hold himself together as the feeling of falling apart threatens to catch up with him. He can’t quite believe it, and wonders how much of a fool the psychic had taken him for, thinking that Harry wouldn’t immediately recognize one of the most famous footballers in the United Kingdom. But again, Harry is an idiot for ever thinking the situation would be anything other than foolish. He shakes his head in disgust.

It’s all so fucking laughable.

It takes him a full ten minutes to calm down, tears pricking his eyes, before the feeling comes back to his legs and he’s able to move. Harry takes a beer from the fridge, cracking it open and taking a long, slow swig before he turns on his phone. It quickly begins buzzing in his hand, his inbox filling with a slew of unanswered texts and emails, of which he hardly has the energy to look at. He responds to Niall’s dozens of messages with a simple sentence to convey his displeasure: _Waste of time. Ur a dick_ to which Niall responds with a dozen more texts, filled with too many questions and laughing emojis for Harry’s sour mood. He leaves his phone face down on the counter, where he won’t be tempted to look at it, and retreats to his bedroom with slumped shoulders.

So yeah, Harry had known the psychic would be a waste of his time. He _knew_ that. So why does his stomach feel queasy, the weight of disappointment settling between his ribs and squeezing tight? Louis Tomlinson — of all the people in the world. The famous footballer. The unattainable one. The one who never settles or quits or slows down. He could never be Harry’s soulmate, not even the platonic kind. They live in two different worlds, with no hopes of either colliding anytime in the future. Harry sighs, flopping backwards in his double bed and throwing his arm across his eyes. He decides that the psychic was a cheat and a liar, after all. Why else would he paint a well-known, public figure? It was all a joke to him. And that’s fine with Harry. He went there for a laugh, anyway. Well, _ha ha_ , he got his laugh. Hilarious. Comical. 10/10 joke, Mr. Psychic. 

He peeks through his arm at the Louis Tomlinson poster hanging beside his bed, admiring the way the red and white costume hugs his petite frame, his windswept hair falling gracefully across his sweat-soaked forehead. Harry groans and rubs the palms of his hands against his eyes, wishing he could physically scrub away the memory of Louis’ exquisite face painted in delicate strokes across the plain white canvas. He wishes that he had the strength to throw the painting away and erase it from existence. He wishes he had never gone to that stupid psychic shop in the first place. He wishes a lot of things.

Harry falls asleep in bed too late that night, unable to stop glaring at the poster and wondering what it would be like if someday, somehow, he could actually meet the man of his dreams. Louis Tomlinson or not.

+++ 

Harry wakes up to an object hitting his stomach hard, causing him to shoot up in bed as a sharp gasp is forced out of his lungs. Something small, phallic-shaped, and yellow falls into his lap and Harry looks up with narrowed eyes, already contemplating the best way to murder Niall, cradling his wounded stomach in one arm while the other clutches at the purple duvet around his waist. 

“Morning, sleepyhead.” Niall smirks, holding a half-eaten banana of his own in one hand and a canvas in the other. There’s the smell of burnt coffee emanating throughout the flat and the low hum of a sitcom playing from the sitting room. Niall’s blue eyes stray to the Tomlinson poster beside Harry’s head, eyebrow cocked. “I can see why you’re upset now.”

Harry’s eyes widen at the canvas and he mentally curses at himself for forgetting it in the kitchen. He should’ve known that Niall would come home last night and see it. Now Harry is never going to hear the end of it; his best friend is going to milk this for all it’s worth. Niall had already teased Harry relentlessly the first couple times they had watched the Doncaster Rovers play a match on the telly, pointing out Tomlinson on the pitch every chance he got, commenting on his bum and wondering aloud whether he liked to give or take, and Harry had punched him hard enough in the arm that Niall had promised to never bring it up again. But this painting added new fuel to the old fire.

“That psychic was bullshit. I can’t believe you made me go.” He pointedly ignores the poster, although he does feel somewhat taunted by its presence. There’s a slight twitch in his fingers, the temptation to tear it down growing with each passing second.

Niall scoffs but his smile is smug. “I didn’t make you do anything. I suggested you go. I’m glad you did. Did you like him?”

“He took the piss out of me with that painting, Ni! No, I didn’t like him.” Harry crosses his arms, his lower lip forming a pout. He’s well aware that he’s acting like a petulant child, but Harry doesn’t appreciate being taken advantage of. It’s one of those things that has happened far too often and cut him far too deeply in the past. And each time it happens again, those wounds are ripped wide open, pulsing and hot and angry, bleeding into his life, whether he likes it or not. 

Niall’s face goes soft. “Aww, Haz. I really don’t think he was.”

Harry waves his hand exaggeratedly at the canvas. “Then what do you call that, huh?”

They both look down at the painting, the face of Louis Tomlinson large enough to feel like a third person in the room, watching and listening silently to their argument. Harry and Niall shiver at its creepy likeness to the real Tomlinson. Without having to be asked, Niall flips the canvas so its facing the wall, no longer casting silent judgment upon them. He looks back at Harry and takes a small, pensive bite out of his banana. “Just because it’s some famous bloke, doesn’t mean he took the piss out of you. He really didn’t seem like the type to even watch footy. Plus, he can’t have known about your major fucking crush on the guy, unless you told him.”

Harry flops back into his pillows, his brooding eyes aimed up at the ceiling. “There’s no way Louis fucking Tomlinson is my soulmate. There’s no way I’d ever get the chance to meet him, let alone get to know him, or _date_ him.”

Another object is pelted at Harry’s stomach, though this time, it’s Niall’s banana peel. Harry chucks it back at him fullforce, but Niall ducks out of the way quickly, his booming laugh filling the room. “When did you become so pessimistic, anyway? The Harry I used to know was much more bubbly than this grumpy gus.”

“I’m not pessimistic,” Harry grumbles, snatching the uneaten banana from his lap and peeling it from the bottom up. “I’m realistic. I’ve lived with my head in the clouds. Been there, done that. All that it leads to is pain and disappointment.” 

Niall sighs. “There’s nothing wrong with a bit of positivity, Haz. And as far as impossibility goes, did you forget that you work on a fucking newspaper?”

“I write news articles for a local paper. Local news. Not regional or national. Not the sports section. There’s no conceivable scenario where I’d cover a Doncaster Rovers game or be able to interview the guy, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Harry had already thought it over, dozens of times (far more than he’d ever admit), and long before yesterday’s events occurred. Ever since Tomlinson had been signed onto the Doncaster Rovers in 2015, Harry had found himself daydreaming scenarios of himself traveling to Doncaster, equipped with a pad of paper, pen, and an old tape recorder, ready to be the first to interview the newest breakout football star in the United Kingdom. And not only that, but the first _openly gay_ breakout football star. He daydreamed about getting the exclusive scoop on all things Louis Tomlinson, his favorite color, why he chose a career in football, his charity work, his favorite pastimes. And yeah, often those daydreams led to fantasies of him and Louis hitting it off at the cafe where they conduct the interview, their fingers brushing, sparks flying, maybe Tomlinson pushing Harry up against the brick wall of the back alley and pressing his lips against the column of his throat. What of it? They always were, always had been, and always would be just that: daydreams and fantasies. 

Maybe that’s why Harry was so bitter. The painting was the universe’s way of mocking him.

His friend merely shrugs. “You could do some freelance work. Find a way. This is your chance to take destiny by the balls and make him your bitch.”

“You say it as if it’s that simple.”

“It’s that simple.”

Harry shakes his head as he solemnly eats his banana. “I’m done talking about this. Can we play Scrabble?” 

+++ 

The two of them play Scrabble for a couple hours, and it’s enough to push the thoughts of Louis Tomlinson and soulmates out of Harry’s mind, but then Harry gets angry at Niall for trying to use “London” as a word, and the two bicker until somehow the board ends up flipped over, all former words disappearing into an unintelligible mess on the carpet. They decide to order pizza and Chinese food, stuffing their faces while watching romantic comedies and drinking beer, hanging out like they would on any normal Sunday afternoon. Which is nice. Harry rather enjoys their weekend routine.

They absolutely do not watch any football games — despite both of them knowing that the Rovers aren’t even playing until next week. The subject is still too sore for either of them to breach, so it’s simply avoided. And although he’s having a good day with his best friend, Harry’s mind starts to wander to the painting in his bedroom and what it means for him. He’s not like Niall. He can’t “take destiny by the balls and make him his bitch” as Niall so eloquently said. He’s not the type to rush headfirst into things and hope for the best . . . at least, not anymore. There used to be a time when Harry was an even bigger romantic than Niall, the type to pull grand gestures and turn every cheesy tradition into personal, heartfelt actions. He used to care so much. Probably too much, one would argue.

The last guy he had done anything romantic for was his last boyfriend, Noah, and that relationship had ended over two years ago. They had been dating for about a year and a half, and Harry had just begun feeling truly invested in the relationship. It was the first time he’d ever truly fallen in love (or so he'd thought), and he poured everything he had into it. He planned extravagant date nights, cooked all of Noah’s favorite meals, bought him gifts and trinkets just because they’d made Harry think of him. For their 18-month anniversary, Harry had bought Noah a room full of daisies (his favorite flower) before whisking him away to Edinburgh on a weekend getaway, where they drank flutes of the most expensive champagne, fed each other chocolate covered fruits, and went on a private hot air balloon ride, with just the two of them and a hired guitarist, who serenaded Noah with a song that Harry himself had helped write. 

Perhaps it had been a bit too much, too soon. Perhaps Noah had been scared away from the intensity of his own feelings, or Harry had simply driven him away. They broke up a week later, Noah having dumped him via text message, and it was the worst heartbreak he’d ever experienced. Since then, all of Harry’s relationships have been fleeting, month-long endeavors at the most. He holds himself at arms length, emotionally detached from the other person, keeping things casual and preferring to focus on the physical parts of the relationship. Honestly, it’s all he has the energy to give anymore. And lately, he hardly has the energy for that, either. Every single one of Harry’s romantic relationships and grand gestures have proven to be utter failures in the past — so _excuse_ him if he doesn’t feel like putting himself out there, or wearing his heart on his sleeve, only to be hurt all over again. It’s not worth it. It’s really not. He’s been thrown to the curb one too many times, thank you very much.

“Mate, you have got to stop thinking so much.” Niall’s voice brings him back down to earth. The television screen is paused, the remote set carefully on their wooden coffee table, Niall having turned his entire body towards Harry on their L-shaped sofa. It’s difficult to know just how long Niall’s been staring at him, trying to capture his attention. Harry can feel his cheeks go pink.

“‘M sorry.” He mumbles. 

“Nah, you know not to apologize to me. There’s nothing to be sorry for. I’m only lookin’ out for you. I know you’re thinkin’ about yesterday, and love and soulmates, and all of that bullshit. I know you’ve been hurt in the past. I was there for it all, mate.” Niall’s got his serious tone on, which causes Harry to blink rapidly, turning away to stare at the frozen screen. “I would never tell you how to live your life. I never have, never will. But you keeping your heart locked away won’t save you from heartbreak. You’ll end up heartbroken, regardless.”

Harry furrows his brows and opens his mouth with a retort ready on his lips, but Niall stops him. “And I’m not sayin’ that you should look for Tomlinson, or believe in any of this soulmate shit if you truly don’t want to. I just want you to be happy, H. You deserve someone special, because you’re special.”

For a moment, Harry can’t breathe, his heart having lodged itself right up in his throat. He chokes it back down as tears prick at his eyes, collecting in his eyelashes and blurring his vision. Niall, for better or worse, has always somehow known what to say at the right time. Ever since they were children, he’s been able to read Harry like an open book. There have been so many times that Harry himself had been unable to articulate his thoughts or feelings, and yet somehow, Niall always could. He was always around to help Harry navigate the messy web inside himself, directing him from Point A to Point B with surprising accuracy. Harry often wonders where he’d be now if it wasn’t for Niall. Though he doesn’t really _want_ to know, if he’s being honest. The thought scares him senseless.

He clears his throat. “I’ve tried, Niall. It never works out.”

Niall throws a comforting arm around his shoulder, and Harry takes it as an invitation to rest his head inside the crook of his neck, nose brushing the Irish man’s shoulder. “You haven’t found the right person yet. When it’s right, you won’t have to try so hard. You’ve unfortunately only dated bastards so far. That doesn’t mean there isn’t some other lucky bastard who’s perfect for you.”

Harry laughs, which causes a bubble of snot to erupt from his nose. “Thanks.”

“Gross,” Niall wrinkles his nose and tries to move away, but Harry only wraps his arms tight around his middle, pretending to wipe his snot on his shoulder. “Ugh, no! Harry!”

They wrestle like that for a bit, Harry giggling as Niall screeches, struggling but not really trying to escape the strong grip of Harry’s arms. It’s a little while later, when Harry has situated his head on Niall’s stomach, the two men lying on the couch, half-asleep, when he looks up at his friend, whose eyes are glued to the television screen, unfocused and unmoving. “Hey, Niall.”

“Mmm.” Niall responds, his eyes fluttering with sleep.

“What made you change your mind about the psychic?” He asks. “Like, I know you must’ve gotten a painting from him. What about it made you feel like you could trust him?”

Niall mulls it over, a small smile on his face, as though cherishing an important memory. Harry hums and waits patiently, his eyes trained on the television screen, watching but not really paying attention to the current Friends episode playing. He thinks it’s the Thanksgiving special where Chandler spends the day locked in a wooden box. One of his favorites. Harry can’t help but wish he was Chandler right now, locked away and hidden from view, so that way, nobody would have to see just how broken he truly is. Even Niall, who can see past all the bullshit, wouldn’t be able to look past a wooden box.

“I don’t know, really. It was kind of like one of those gut feelings, you know? I was just as ready as you to dismiss it and write him off as a con artist, but when I got around to looking at her—” Harry can feel the sharp intake of breath as Niall’s chest rises beneath him. “I saw the painting and I had this feeling of completion, like she was my missing puzzle piece. It sounds dumb. But that’s how I felt.”

“‘S not dumb.” Harry sighs. “‘S romantic. You’re such a bloody romantic.”

“Nah, I just like to go with my gut. I always listen to it. I’ve gotten this far in my life doing so and I’ve never regretted it. Of course, I have yet to meet the girl, but I believe it’ll happen when it’s meant to.” Niall chuckles, his fingers scratching at Harry’s scalp, lulling him further into sleep. “Unlike you. With you and your painting, I feel like you’ve got this amazing opportunity. Your potential soulmate is right at your fingertips. You know who he is. You can make it happen whenever you want it to.”

Harry snorts, but doesn’t respond. It’s not as simple as Niall makes it out to be, now is it? Harry can’t just waltz up to a famous footballer and romance him. That’s not how the real world works. As much as Harry would love to woo Louis Tomlinson, to make the celebrity he’s been crushing on for years fall head over heels in love with him, it’s far from being anywhere near a realistic goal. Harry can’t just _make_ it happen. 

Besides, would he even want to? What’s that saying, again? Never meet your heroes? Why would Harry want to meet Louis and break the illusion he’s created in his mind? What if he’s not as kind or charitable as Harry has made him out to be? What if he’s a dickhead? And why would Louis ever consider dating a fan, anyway? He could literally have anyone he wanted. Harry doubts, even if they met, that he would make it anywhere on the list of potential suitors. And if he did, what happens then? Do they ride off into the sunset together? There’s no way to answer these questions without putting himself out there and making a complete fool of himself, and that’s what scares Harry the most.

Anyway, it’ll never happen. So there’s no point in fussing over it, right?

But there’s something both Niall and Liam said that’s bothering Harry, continuously nudging its way to the front of his mind, despite how badly Harry wishes it would disappear. Liam had explained his visions, or feelings, whatever, as fitting pieces together — like a puzzle — and Niall had said that looking at his own painting, his gut had told him that she was his missing puzzle piece. Something about those statements gnaws away at him, eating at any and all other thoughts until it’s all he can focus on. 

What did he feel, initially, when looking at his painting? Underneath it all, deep down, past all of the bitterness and disbelief and anger, what had his gut told him in that moment? Did he feel any pieces of his own click together?

He can’t remember, but thinking about the painting now, with its delicate features and knowing eyes, Harry can’t ignore the warm feeling in his chest, settling between his lungs and nestling beside his heart. He can’t ignore it. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to listen. 

Instead, he continues to watch Friends reruns on the television, allowing the faint rumble of Niall’s snores and the sitcom’s laugh track to act as his personal white noise machines, waiting for the darkness of sleep to envelop him. And if Harry dreams of sea-blue eyes and thin, pink lips — and what it would be like to touch those lips — well, nobody has to know.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Niall has a good idea.

Mondays are hell. There’s no other way to put it. The beginning of each week in the Holmes Chapel Gazette newsroom is always the same: long morning meetings punctuated with story pitches on multicolored post-it notes and a dozen voices arguing over one another; story assignments emailed to each writer by midday, complete with a list of contacts and buzzwords to include in their articles; and pots and pots of coffee ingested before the clock ever strikes noon as each writer dives headfirst into the long work week ahead. Harry normally loves the chaos — thrives on it, in fact — but this particular Monday is more hellish than the rest. 

It had been going fine at first, normal even. He contributed to the cacophony of voices during the morning meeting, making sure that his pitch at least made it to the board, and he chatted politely with his fellow writers, cracking jokes with Kid (music and entertainment) and asking Jenny (lifestyle) how their newborn was doing. The incessant background noise — dozens of people typing, landlines ringing, printers and copiers buzzing and whirring — often kept his mind distracted, which is exactly what he needed today. He couldn’t have his mind wandering at work. Work is meant to be his escape. It’s a place where real news comes to be published, where every word and sentence and piece of punctuation is carefully placed to share important stories with their audience. Harry takes pride in that fact, and he loves the atmosphere that it creates.

But as soon as he receives his story assignment that afternoon, every click of keys, shrill phone call, and grating buzz of the printer only works to further set Harry’s teeth on edge. 

**Styles** : Public interest story - Payne’s Psychic Readings

  * Contact(s): Liam Payne (psychic) - +44 5555 555555



Almost immediately after reading the email, Harry is tempted to burst into his boss’s room and demand a reassignment. Upon seeing the word ‘psychic,’ everything else becomes a blur of black and white, a jumble of nonsense that his frazzled mind finds impossible to process. He’s done worse stories in the past: covering the construction of a new parking lot near the local hospital, speaking with an ornery old man who had decided to run through town in his undergarments in the dead of winter, interviewing local officials before elections, you name it. But he has never, ever asked to be reassigned. Harry believes in doing his due diligence and writing a good story, despite how dull or lackluster or ridiculous the content might be. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket and Harry pulls it out to reveal a string of texts from Niall:

_Holy shit I have an idea_

_Ur gonna love it_

_Maybe_

_Just come to the pub after work ok?_

Harry furrows his brows in confusion, but types out a quick _ok_ and sends it, his mind too preoccupied with the crisis at hand, staring at the email on his desktop screen as though he can make it disappear with sheer force of will. Sadly, it doesn’t work. Harry sighs, rubbing his hand down his face in exasperation.

If he asks to be moved from this story, his boss would ask questions. He would want to know why Harry doesn’t want to interview the psychic, and that would lead to too many speculations. His boss would figure it out, maybe even his coworkers. And, okay, Harry knows it wouldn’t be the end of the world if they found out he’d gone — almost everyone in town had gone to see the psychic now, which is why it was such a newsworthy story — but the embarrassment would be far too much for him to handle. He just couldn’t walk into the newsroom anymore without his skin crawling, feeling the heavy stares of his coworkers peering into his soul and wondering who his painting had been of, or some shit like that. His workplace would no longer be a safe place, or a distraction. It would be his own personal hell.

No, he has to write it. Which means going back to the psychic’s shop. Fuck. _Fuuuuuck_.

It’s okay. He can do this. It’s his _job_ , for crying out loud. The thought of going back to the psychic for a simple interview shouldn’t paralyze him as much as it does, yet here he is. Harry reaches for the landline, hands trembling, and dials in the shop’s phone number before he can chicken out. 

“Hullo?” A voice, much gruffer than the one Harry remembers, yawns.

“Erm, hi. This is Harry Styles from the Holmes Chapel Gazette, you might remember me from the other day. I, er, received a painting from you.”

“Yes, I remember. You’re the skeptic.” Liam sounds almost amused. 

“That’s me.” He hates how awkward he sounds. This is normally so easy for him, and yet he’s been reduced to nothing more than a nervous wreck.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Styles?” 

“I was wondering if you would be willing to conduct an interview with me for the local paper, you know, tell your story.” 

See, this is the tricky part about doing profiles. His boss almost always approves of them without first contacting the person who the article is meant to be about. He always leaves it to his team, and although the subjects are almost always willing to comply, there are always those rare ones who outright refuse to be in the paper.

Harry is silently hoping that Liam is the latter type of person.

There’s a thoughtful hum from the other end of the line. “Not much to tell. I’m not a big fan of character profiles, myself. They come off as insincere. A bit braggy.”

“Oh, well—”

“But I quite like you, and I wouldn’t mind helping you, but if I do it, it’ll be on my terms. You can ask whatever questions you have, but I won’t guarantee any answers.”

“Right.”

“Just be sure to come with the right questions.”

What does that even _mean_? “I’ll try my best. Is there a specific time and date that works best for you?”

Liam chuckles. “I’ll give you a few days to prepare. How about Wednesday afternoon? I close shop at 3 o’clock.”

Harry shuffles an empty coffee mug out of his way and quickly jots down the time on the stray piece of paper he’d been using as a makeshift coaster. “That’ll work. Thank you.”

“No problem. And Harry?” 

“Yeah?” The tone of Liam’s voice has dropped an octave, returning to the eerily calm, soothing voice he had used during Harry’s session. It causes Harry’s insides to squirm uncomfortably, as though he’s still being read, despite Liam not being able to see his face.

“Your friend has a good idea. You should hear him out.” 

Before Harry can say anything in response, the line goes dead, leaving him with nothing but the dial tone and a lack of answers to the myriad of questions resting on the tip of his tongue. Because, how the fuck did he know?

Seriously. What the _fuck_.

+++

“So, the guy literally went all psychic on you over the phone?” Niall cackles. “And he knew that _I_ had an idea? How does that work?”

Harry groans, his forehead pressed against the sticky countertop of the pub’s bar. His hand clutches a gin and tonic (his second one, who’s counting), but the alcohol isn’t doing much to cure his throbbing headache. “I don’t know Niall. Are you sure you didn’t do all of this just to fuck with me?”

Immediately after he got out of work, Harry had raced to meet up with Niall, his thoughts clouded over and impossible to discern from one another. He had absolutely not gotten any other work done after his phone call with Liam, and if he’s being honest, he really fucking hates the psychic for doing this to him. There’s a time and place to act all weird and clairvoyant — and doing that while someone is working is positively not it. As soon as Niall had seen his face, he had told the bartender to keep the drinks coming. Harry had spilled everything to him, desperately needing his friend to untangle the unpleasant feelings brewing inside of him. 

He peeks over to his left and Niall’s hands are raised in a placating gesture. “Swear on my life, mate. Haven’t spoken to the guy since my own reading.”

Harry groans, and Niall continues. “It is super fucking weird. That bloke is weird.”

Harry only grunts in agreement.

“C’mon mate. Don’t let him get to you. Plus, he told you to hear me out. Do you want to know what my plan is? I hear it’s quite good.” Niall giggles. His cheeks are reddened and he’s on his third pint, which means he’s pleasantly tipsy, not quite on the verge of drunk yet.

“Piss off,” Harry scoffs, shoving Niall’s arm away. His friend only cackles in response, slinging a heavy arm around Harry’s shoulders and squeezing. “Alright, go on.”

“I have three fucking words for you: charity. football. match.”

Harry waits ten seconds, the confusion clearly evident on his face, for Niall to continue. When he doesn’t, he gestures impatiently with his hands. “Okay, and? What does that have to do with anything? I mean, it’s a good idea, mate. Don’t get me wrong. But . . . ”

Niall is sort of a cross between a philanthropist and a freelance businessman. He loves to invest in new ideas and businesses — it’s how he makes most of his living — and will often throw massive events throughout the year. Last year, he organized the Manchester 4K Fun Run, where dozens of businesses lined up along the runners’ route and handed out free merchandise, food, and drinks. The amount of publicity each business got was overwhelming, their sales rising exponentially high for weeks afterwards, and Niall had invested in all of them beforehand. Another year, he planned and organized a charity gala alongside the owners of the O2, where three-quarters of the proceeds were donated to both cancer research and autism awareness projects. Niall has, somehow, without meaning to, become a huge deal in the world of business and philanthropy.

Really, Niall Horan is just a really good fucking person, and Harry’s proud to be his friend. But normally when he has ideas, he fleshes them out a bit more before sharing with anyone — even Harry. He loves to talk about his three-point plans and show off party planning sketches and explain in excruciating detail just how mind-blowing the entire event is going to be. So when Niall just smiles at him with a strange, mischievous glint in his eyes, Harry finds it impossible not to feel a little nervous.

Harry clears his throat. “So, were you thinking of Manchester United to play it, then?”

“Nah, Manchester is premier league. Too hard to get. I know a bloke who’s with the Holmes Chapel Hurricanes, so I figured I’d ask them to play,” Niall smiles.

“Erm, that’s nice and all, but you realize you need some big names to gain publicity, right? And earn donors?”

Niall simply wiggles his eyebrows.

And then everything clicks into place, and Harry immediately goes from having a throbbing headache to his entire skull being split in half from the enormous fucking migraine that’s currently forming behind his eyelids. “You can’t be serious.” 

“Okay, listen,” Niall raises his hands again. “The charity match is going to be a collaboration between the Hurricanes, The Proud Trust, and a few local high school LGBT+ clubs. It’s gonna raise money that will go towards renovating the local LGBT+ youth center. So, if we can get the Rovers to play, it’s a huge fucking media boost. The press will eat it up. Having Tomlinson at the match would bring thousands more in donations, and you know it.”

“And this has absolutely nothing to do with you trying to get me to talk to the guy?” Harry shakes his head and takes a huge swig of gin and tonic, focusing on the burning liquid in his throat, an already failing attempt to steady his nerves. “Even though you told me it was up to me?”

His friend merely rolls his eyes, tipping his head back as he finishes the final dregs of his pint, motioning to the bartender for a fourth. “That’s why I’m coming to you now, H. Before any planning is done or any phone calls made, I wanted to run it by you.”

“You realize if I say no, that makes me a complete wanker, right?”

“I would still put on a charity event and the proceeds would still go to the same places. I would just find another way to go about it,” Niall says. “Or I’d ask another team. Whatever.”

There’s a huge possibility that Harry might punch Niall tonight, but for now, he finishes the rest of his gin and tonic and sighs. The psychic was right. It’s a good idea — brilliant, even — and god knows it’s a cause that’s quite personal to Harry himself. Bringing in actual queer footballers to raise money for an LGBT+ center is a no-brainer, and Tomlinson is the biggest name out there. He’s universally adored by fans and has received nothing but positive press, which Harry chalks up to Tomlinson’s own philanthropic endeavors. (He can’t help but think about how well Niall and Louis would get on, if they met. They’d be like two fucking peas in a pod). His fellow teammates shower him with praise and would probably go to bat for him without a second thought. _Everyone_ loves the bloke.

So yeah, it’s a brilliant idea. But that doesn’t mean Harry has to like it.

“You should do it,” He says. The bartender pours him a third gin and tonic and Harry nods his thanks before tipping it all the way back, swallowing the entire glass in one gulp. “It’s a good idea. I wouldn’t dream of telling you not to."

Niall eyes him warily. “I can go with another team, mate. It’s no prob—” 

“No,” Harry’s eyes cut to him, and he knows he probably looks crazed or some shit. “You said it yourself. Tomlinson would bring in much more in donations and it’ll be nice to have someone on the field who is out and proud. He’s perfect.”

He says the last part wistfully, mostly to himself, but Niall catches it and smirks. He doesn’t say a word about it though, which Harry is grateful for. “If you say so, H.”

Harry huffs out a small laugh. “Follow your dreams, or whatever. Right?”

“My only dream is for you to be bloody happy, mate,” Niall sighs. Harry bites his inner cheek, holding back a sarcastic retort. His friend gets like this after he’s had a few drinks — all sentimental and shit. And, look. Harry loves Niall. He really, truly does. But sometimes it feels like Harry himself has become one of Niall’s projects. He’s always trying to fix Harry, or convince him to get himself together. And that’s what friends _do_ , of course, but Niall sometimes does it in a way that Harry can’t help but get a sour taste in his mouth afterwards. 

It’s the eyes. Always so full of pity.

“Likewise, Ni.” He smiles, the look not quite reaching his eyes. 

The subject is dropped soon afterwards, and the two of them spend the rest of the night drinking copious amounts of alcohol and eating plate after plate of chips, discussing random shit like the bees disappearing and later devolving into a nonsense debate over who’s better: The Red Hot Chili Peppers or Nirvana (Harry firmly holds the belief that Nirvana is the superior band, whereas Niall insists that the discography of the Red Hot Chili Peppers is the pinnacle of new age rock). 

It’s one of those nights where Harry is reminded all over again just how lucky he is to have Niall Horan as his best mate. You know, despite the fact that he created a plan solely to force Harry into being in the same vicinity as his celebrity crush (and potential soulmate?). Harry can forgive him for that. Besides — and it might be the alcohol talking — Harry is rather excited to see what happens. 

+++

The crowd outside the psychic shop is just as suffocating as the first time Harry was here, though maybe a tad smaller, but he chalks that up to being a weekday, and due to the fact that Liam closes early on Wednesdays. He doesn’t know what these people want, or why they’re here. He’s starting to guess that a lot of them are here, not for the artwork, but for the psychic himself. 

Harry can’t entirely blame them. Liam is a good looking guy, after all.

He stands outside in the cold, his hands shoved in his trouser pockets, trying to distance himself from the rest of the group and peering into the dimly lit shop in search of the man in question. Liam comes up from the back and the crowd goes wild, pushing up against the window and waving excitedly into the darkness, as though their display of over-eagerness would ever persuade him to come outside.

Liam grimaces and waves politely, his eyes sliding over the crowd until they rest on Harry, who instinctively recoils. There’s something about the way Liam looks at him — at people in general — and Harry doubts that it’s intentional, but it makes him uncomfortable regardless. Liam’s eyes make him feel like his body is on fire. And not in a good way.

But Liam is smiling, so Harry smiles back. Somehow, he pushes his way through the crowd and towards the front door, which Liam opens just enough to let him inside, before quickly shutting it once more and turning the lock. The crowd (fans? groupies?) groans in displeasure as Liam pulls the shutters down, sufficiently hiding him and Harry from the dozens of faces pressed against the building.

Harry exhales a long breath. “You’re somewhat of a celebrity here, aren’t you?”

“Not by choice,” Liam sighs, sounding sincere. “I don’t know why they come here.”

“Maybe they’re all hoping to be your soulmate.” 

Harry winces at the joke, hoping Liam doesn’t interpret him as being an asshole, so he’s relieved when Liam starts to laugh, clutching his stomach and leaning against the nearby wall for support. 

“Yeah, because sticking their noses on my window every day is sure to woo me,” he chuckles. “I doubt they even care that I have to wash their greasy smudges from that window every night!”

Harry can’t help but laugh at that. “True. It’s very unsanitary.”

Some of the tension eases from the room, and Liam smiles at Harry as though he could sense the shift as soon as it happened. At this point, Harry wouldn’t be surprised. “Let’s go somewhere more private. I hate being this close to the crowd. Makes me uneasy.”

There’s no arguing with that logic, so Harry follows Liam towards the back of the shop, noticing along the way how significantly lower the stacks of blank canvases are, and how much messier it is. He wants to crack another joke about how busy Liam has been, but doesn’t feel it would be appropriate. By the rigid position of Liam’s shoulders, Harry can tell the bloke is stressed. 

They stop in front of a wooden door with a lock, which Liam unlocks quickly with the key dangling on a chain around his neck. He motions for Harry to follow him up a rickety set of stairs. When they reach the top, Harry raises his eyebrows in silent surprise. The room in front of him is definitely being used as a living space, with a mattress in one corner, a pile of blankets haphazardly thrown atop it; a bookcase in another with titles ranging from Shakespeare and Virginia Woolf to graphic novels; two wooden chairs placed at the kitchen island where a stack of unopened mail is sitting; and a door leading off into what is presumably the bathroom. There are even more string lights up here than downstairs — if that’s even possible — and dozens of personal photos taped to the walls. Harry tries not to look too hard at the faces in each photo, not wanting to be intrusive.

“Do you live here, too?” Harry asks.

“Yeah. It’s a pretty sweet deal, actually. I got the shop downstairs and a decent sized studio up here. It's convenient. This way I can keep all my ducks in a row, yeah?”

It makes sense, Harry supposes. But in light of Liam’s booming success and growing name, Harry assumed that he would be living in a bigger space, maybe a bit more posh. He eyes the studio, and it’s not small, but it definitely was only made for one person. The place suddenly seems too lonely, and there’s the growing feeling of pity settling in Harry’s stomach, but he immediately pushes it down. Harry hates when people pity him, so he won’t share the same sentiment towards others.

“It’s nice.”

Liam laughs, walking over to one of the wooden chairs and sitting down. “I know it’s not much, but it’s preferable to having to commute every day. And the shop can be used as extra storage for any belongings I can’t fit up here. It’s a win-win. I love it.”

Harry nods. “I get that.”

“So . . . would you like some tea? Coffee? A biscuit? Or would you prefer to get straight into it?”

“‘M good, thanks though,” he settles himself on the wooden chair beside Liam, shuffling through his messenger bag and retrieving his notes. He came up with plenty of questions for the interview, just in case Liam proved to be more withholding than he let on. Harry didn’t want to have to come here more than once. It was more convenient for the both of them to knock it all out right now.

Liam seems to comprehend right away. He whistles at the long list of questions scribbled on various pieces of paper, a small smile playing on his lips. “You come prepared.”

“It’s my job to be.” Harry murmurs. He pulls out his phone, setting it between them, and sets up the voice recorder, pausing briefly so Liam can give him the okay before he starts. “Alright, so before we begin, can I have your full name and age?”

“Liam Payne. Age 27.” The psychic’s voice turns back into that gruff tone Harry had heard over the phone, almost as though it’s natural for him to slip between the two. Harry suppresses a shiver, instead focusing on the papers in his hands.

“And where did you live before this?”

“Wolverhampton.”

“Why did you leave? And why choose Holmes Chapel as your base?”

Liam’s grin stills. “I chose Holmes Chapel because I have fond memories of this town. I spent three years of primary school here and I’ve been itching to come back for a while now.”

“Why did it take you so long to come back?” Harry tries not to press, so he doesn’t push Liam to answer his first question, but he has to admit his curiosity has peaked. 

“I had obligations. Family, friends, work. The usual.” The psychic picks at his trousers without thinking. “I went to uni in London, so I guess the timing wasn’t right until just recently.”

“What did you study at uni?”

“Music.” 

Harry pauses and looks up. “Really?”

“Mhmm. Classically trained.”

It’s not that Harry is shocked, he just wasn’t expecting it. He had assumed that Liam had studied psychology or body language or astrology or some shit like that — you know, things that would help him in this line of work. Classical music is . . . surprising, to say the least. Unconventional. Harry definitely has a newfound level of respect for this man.

“Uh, so, why did you decide not to go the music route? I mean, why choose being a psychic instead?”

There’s a long beat of silence, and Harry isn’t sure whether it’s a good or bad thing. Liam’s hand has stilled on his trousers and his eyes are glassy, as though looking far off into the distance. Harry sits and waits, because there’s nothing else he can do, trying his best to remain patient.

“May I ask why you do what you do?” Liam asks, brows furrowed. “Why journalism?”

“Um,” He’s never really thought about it. He has always loved writing. Has always enjoyed talking to people. Harry has this knack for telling stories, and good ones. When he writes, people read it, and they enjoy it. There’s something about sharing something that’s true, too, that makes him feel much more content than he ever would writing fiction. It makes him feel good to put an honest story out into the world. But how does he explain all of that to a near stranger? “It’s hard to explain, but I love to write.”

It’s a shit answer, but Liam just nods.

“When something calls to us, it’s always hard to explain, yeah? I was drawn to classical music because it triggered something deep and urgent inside of me. I don’t know why, it just did. It still does. But somehow — this is how it happened — I picked up an art class for fun. And I didn’t really connect with it, not until the day we started acrylics. When I picked up the paintbrush and looked at the canvas I could just . . . _see_ the picture right in front of me. And the crazy thing was, when I was finished, my professor came around and gasped, and I thought that I had done something wrong or that it was horrible, but it turns out, I had painted her husband. I’d never even met the guy. He just — poof — appeared on the page in front of me. So ever since then, it’s sort of like this drive inside me to keep going on with it.”

“So, you weren’t aware you were capable of any sort of premonitions until you started painting?” He asks. Liam shakes his head. “Do you ever . . . regret picking up that paintbrush? Like, do you ever wish you had gone with music instead?”

“I still make music. Most of the stuff I play in the shop is my work, actually. So I wouldn’t say I miss it. Although performing in front of an audience always gave me a rush. I do miss that.”

He doesn’t give an answer about whether he regrets it or not, Harry notes. He breezes right past it as though it’s not important. They go back and forth like that for a while, Harry asking Liam a few personal questions, while Liam responds easily and honestly, only occasionally refusing to answer yet another question. When Harry looks at the clock, it’s been over an hour, and he’s barely made his way through the list. 

Liam notices his anxiety right away and immediately switches to his psychic voice. “How about we continue tomorrow?”

Harry shakes his head. “No. I’d rather finish it now, if that’s alright with you?”

Liam’s lips twitch, but he nods. “Of course.”

“I’ll just find three of my most pressing questions and see if we have enough after that, okay?”

“Mhmm.” 

He eyes his papers hurriedly, trying to find the questions he’s most itching to know the answers to, and what he thinks the public would like to know as well. “I know you explained this to me during our initial session, but I’m still a tad confused about how your visions work? You described them like puzzle pieces. Can you tell me a bit more about that?”

“I can try,” he responds. “But like I said, it’s quite difficult to explain. So, it’s like a puzzle, yeah? There’s a collection of pieces in front of you, and you know it’s supposed to make an image at the end, but each piece by itself doesn’t make sense. And there are many ways to fit puzzle pieces together. You can try every single piece against one piece over and over again until you find the right fit, or you can create the border first and fill the rest in later, or you can find the pieces that are most similar to one another and create each image individually before fitting them together. That’s sort of how my paintings work. Each person is different; each aura is different; and each image I see requires me to fit it together in different ways. Like yours, for example—” he pauses. “Can I explain to you how I saw yours?”

Harry gulps. His palms are itching, reaching for his notes and tugging aimlessly at the edges of the paper. He’s not quite sure he wants to hear, but Liam is on a roll, and he doesn’t want to waste any potential bits to use for the story, so he nods. 

“When you walked in here, it was sort of like an explosion of colors in my mind. It was like the puzzle box had been dropped on the floor and the pieces spewed everywhere—” Harry winces at that. “—and it was one of the loudest images I’ve ever gotten. I thought, this is going to be impossible to piece together, just because of how messy everything seemed to be. But then I looked at you, and the pieces sort of, I don’t know, they started to sort of slide into place without me ever having to pick up the paintbrush. I started to see the full image the moment I saw you. That’s never happened to me before.”

Harry doesn’t know what to think. He’s so taken aback by Liam’s answer that he’s lost track of all rational thoughts. And up until now, he’s been doing an okay job of trying not to dwell on Liam’s responses for too long. He’s receiving far too much information too fast and his brain is swirling, almost on the brink of exploding. His hands are trembling and there’s a thin sheen of sweat starting to collect on his top lip. The only way to get out is to wrap this up quickly so Harry can go home and mull everything over in his head, without Liam’s all-knowing stare. He clears his throat, trying to bring himself back to the present.

“Have you ever been wrong? When you give someone their painting, do they ever contact you and tell you you’ve gotten it all wrong?”

Liam laughs at that. “I have received a few calls in the past from people claiming they’ve met the one, and that they’re absolutely not the person I painted for them. And it’s like I said before, I have never claimed that the people I paint are a person’s true love or that they necessarily have to be romantic interests. A soulmate is someone who just gets you, you know? It’s two minds being connected, sharing that . . . that mutual respect, and having a sort of unconditional love and understanding between the two of you. Whether it’s romantic or platonic doesn’t matter. It’s the feeling of being complete.”

 _Like a puzzle piece_ , Harry thinks. 

“What’s your favorite soulmate success story that you’ve been told?” 

“Oh.” Liam appears genuinely surprised by the question. “Well, a lot of my clients send me thank you notes, wedding invitations, the likes. I’ve never heard a full success story — you know, the when, the where, the how — I mostly just get notified long after the fact. Which is quite alright with me. I don’t expect to be thanked or anything. But there is one success story I’m rather interested in hearing one day.” 

The psychic gives Harry that look — the burning one that makes Harry squirm in his seat and causes his chest to become uncomfortably warm — as though he knows something, something about _Harry_ , but won’t tell him.

Harry clears his throat, eyes fixing on his papers. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me anything about that?”

And then Liam smiles, showing off an impossibly white set of teeth, almost like he’s baring his fangs at Harry. But that’s obviously just his imagination. Obviously. “Nope.”

“Brilliant,” Harry murmurs, silently wishing that all clairvoyants would eat a fucking sock.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Niall receive some good news.

“Are you ready?” Niall asks, his finger hovering over the call button.

For a brief moment, Harry wants to snatch it away from him and hide it somewhere far away, maybe bury it deep underground. It’s a ridiculous thought, and he knows it. Like, it’s only a phone call. Not only that, but Niall’s the one who will be doing all the talking. Harry’s only job is to sit here and listen. He can do that. 

“Yeah, go ahead.” He brings his hand to his mouth and starts biting away at his nails. It’s a nervous habit he’s never been able to kick. Niall hardly even comments on it anymore. “Do it now before I change my mind.”

Niall rolls his eyes. But he just doesn’t understand what Harry’s feeling right now.

Because Harry is feeling _a lot_ right now.

God, he’s such a drama queen.

Niall starts the call and puts it on speakerphone, the shrill sound of the dial tone echoing throughout the apartment. They’re sitting in the living room and the phone is set atop the coffee table, Niall’s body hunched over it, most likely to keep Harry from ending the call in a fit of panic (which he would totally do, for the record). His posture is confident and businesslike, despite the fact that nobody is here to see him besides Harry. While Harry, on the other hand, cannot for the life of him stop his leg from bouncing or the incessant twitch of his fingers. 

“Hullo? You’ve reached Zayn Malik, sports manager.”

Harry bites his thumb, heart pounding hard against his ribcage, and Niall holds up his hand in a half-hearted attempt to calm him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Malik! This is Niall Horan speaking. How are you today?”

“I’m quite well, and you?” There’s a hint of interest in Zayn’s voice, leading Niall to flash a thumbs-up towards Harry. Of course Zayn Malik would recognize Niall’s name. Everyone always does.

“I’m doing good, thank you. Listen,” _oh_ , so he’s just getting right to it, then. Harry wipes his palms against the couch cushions. “I have a proposition for you, and it concerns one of your clients, Louis Tomlinson.”

Zayn hums. “What’s your proposition?”

“I know Mr. Tomlinson is a very busy man, and so is the rest of his team, but I’m interested in putting together a charity football match here in Holmes Chapel. It would be a collaboration between the Holmes Chapel Hurricanes, The Proud Trust, and a few local LGBT+ youth clubs in order to raise funds for a renovated LGBT+ youth center. We would be absolutely honored if Mr. Tomlinson would consider playing the match — even better if he can get the whole team as well.”

“Oh. That’s a lovely idea.” Zayn’s voice is surprised, as though he hears a thousand pitches a day, all without any real merit. “I’m actually off to a meeting with him right now. I’ll pitch it to him and see what he says, and if he’s up for it, we can set up a meeting, yeah?”

Harry exhales a long breath, fingers shaking. Niall is currently fist bumping the air. “Yes, of course, Mr. Malik. I hope Mr. Tomlinson is as fond of this idea as I am and that we can make it happen.”

“Me too.” Harry can hear a smile in his tone. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll get back to you within the next twenty-four hours. Mr. Tomlinson isn’t one to keep people waiting.”

Niall laughs politely at that. “Glad to hear it. I’ll let you go now. Talk soon.”

“Of course. Have a good day.” And the line goes dead.

Niall is looking smugly at Harry, and instead of saying anything he settles into a rare bout of silence, but the shit-eating grin is still on his face. They sit without speaking for what feels like hours, but is only minutes (honestly, it’s rather off putting. Niall’s a chatterbox, and anytime he’s silent the world feels empty), before Harry is the one to finally relent, snatching Niall’s phone from the coffee table and ignoring the tremble in his hands as he dials another, more familiar number.

“What are you doing?” Niall asks.

“We might as well eat. I’m ordering some pizza.” He can hear the words come out of his mouth, but it feels like they’re said by someone else. Harry is currently floating outside his body somewhere, his mind stuck on the singular thought of _Louis Tomlinson_. 

Oh god, what if Tomlinson says yes?

“I can’t just sit here,” he exhales, ending the call just as the poor girl on the other end answers, her cheerful voice dull in his ears. “I’m gonna go walk to the shop instead.”

He leaves the flat before Niall has a chance to object or offer to come along. Harry really needs to be alone right now. Needs to feel the fresh, cool air hit his overheating skin and snap him out of this funk. Because he’s going crazy — that’s what this is. Normal people don’t get overwhelmed this easily. He doesn’t even know why he’s overwhelmed, anyway. Sure, he’s got a crush on Tomlinson, and also some type of hero worshipping deal with the guy. Whatever. Most people would be psyched at the chance to meet their hero. So why does the thought make him physically ill?

He doesn’t want to make a bad impression. And he’s not only afraid of being disappointed by the real person, but — he realizes with a start — he’s afraid of Tomlinson being disappointed with _him_. They haven’t even met, yet Harry is petrified by the thought of being rejected, whether as friends or more. He wouldn’t be able to survive it.

The pizza shop is busy when Harry arrives, what with it being a Friday night and all. A few people wave to him and say hello, and Harry nods in acknowledgment. He waits in line, focusing on the handwritten menu in front of him instead of the intrusive thoughts that are currently bumping around in his skull. It’s almost as though he’s on autopilot, going through the motions but not really feeling himself do them. He is somehow able to order and ends up leaving with two large pizzas — one veggie for himself and one triple meat for Niall — but before he can begin his trek back towards the flat, a familiar face stops him in the street. 

“Harry, hello,” Liam Payne says, a warm smile on his face. “How is the article coming along?”

Harry’s eyes are on his face, but it takes him a moment to register the words. “Oh, uh, it’s nearly done. You should be seeing yourself in the paper this Sunday. Front page.”

Liam claps a hand on his shoulder. “Brilliant. I’m glad you got some good material from our interview. I was a tad worried I was being too evasive.”

“No, not at all. I can send you the draft if you’d like?”

Liam shakes his head. “No need. I know it’ll be good.”

The psychic moves towards the door of the pizza shop, but Harry grabs at his arm, suddenly reluctant to let him go. They stand like that for a moment and Liam’s eyes are searching Harry’s face, concerned. Harry is well aware of how insane he probably looks right now, but there’s a pressure on his chest that he can’t shake. 

“Can-can you at least tell me,” he takes a deep breath. “Will he like me? Like, will we be friends or . . . more?”

It sounds so childish, so elementary, coming out of his mouth, but he can’t help but ask, and Liam is the only one who might have the answers he so desperately seeks. 

“Harry, you know it doesn’t work that way.” Liam’s tone is soft, almost regretful. “I wish I could tell you how it’ll all turn out. I really do.”

Harry bites his lip and nods. He expected as much. It was silly of him to even ask, or to treat Liam like some sort of Magic 8 Ball. Like he could shake him until the response he desired fell out of his mouth. “Right, sorry. It was a stupid question. I’ll see you later.”

He turns to walk away, but Liam’s hand slides down to his wrist, holding him in place. “Look, I don’t normally hand out free advice or insight, but you look like you need it. I can’t tell you what your relationship is going to be, but I can tell you that I felt very warm when I was painting it. Happy. Content. That is usually a good sign.”

Warm. Happy. Content. 

Okay, he can accept that.

“Thank you,” he whispers, too afraid to meet the kindness in Liam’s gaze. “I appreciate it.”

“Anytime.” Liam squeezes his wrist one last time before letting go and disappearing into the pizza shop, leaving Harry to walk back to the flat a little lighter than before. Those three words settle on his tongue. Warm. Happy. Content. All good words. All good feelings. A small smile spreads on his lips. 

He comes back to the flat in a flourish, singing a loud, “Pizzzaaa!” as he enters the kitchen and drops his keys dramatically onto the kitchen table. Niall’s quiff pops up from his seat on the couch, his pointer finger pressed against his lips as he speaks on the phone. 

“Yeah?” He asks. “Is he sure?” 

Harry sets the pizza boxes on the counter, snatching a slice of the veggie before leaning against the doorframe, steadying his breath and repeating Liam’s words over and over again in his head. _Warm happy content_. It’s already beginning to feel like a mantra; the words ground him, make him feel more settled and less anxious. He has the sudden urge to befriend Liam, but considering the strange circumstances under which they met, Harry doesn’t know if it’s in the cards. At the very least, he really should find a way to thank the bloke. Perhaps he’ll bake him a batch of cupcakes or something. Or cookies? He’ll figure it out later. 

“That’s brilliant! Thank you so much. He won’t regret this.” Niall jumps off the couch, pumping his fists in the air and silently screaming to Harry, who suddenly feels like he’s just run a marathon. “Yes, of course. I look forward to it. We’ll talk again soon.”

“Good news?” 

“The best.” Niall wiggles his eyebrows. “Tomlinson agreed to do the match. He’s still gotta talk to the rest of the Rovers, but he’s 100% in. He wants to meet first, of course, before we get anything to the press, but he’s in.”

Harry’s mouth freezes around a mouthful of pizza, his heart a battering ram inside his chest. For a moment he forgets how to breathe because — holy shit. Holy fucking _shit_. He never thought it would happen, that Tomlinson would agree to doing the match. 

His chest is getting tighter by the second, but Niall is cheering, so Harry pushes a smile, ignoring the rush of blood in his ears. “That’s great, Ni.”

“We should go out tonight. We need to celebrate!” Niall yells, already running down the hall towards his room. “Drinks are on me!”

+++

Song: [Bad Guy (Krunk! Club Remix) by Billie Eilish](https://youtu.be/FxveHlW4y68)

The club is vibrating with the quick pulse of some random EDM song and the relentless push and pull of the crowd. Harry stands at the bar and watches as Niall gets lost in the sea of bodies, embracing the electricity in the air without a second thought, already drunk and happy and celebrating with the strangers around him. It’s not even midnight yet, but the club they’re at, called South, is packed from wall to wall. Harry tries not to feel like he’s stuck inside a can of sardines, though the smell of salt and fish isn’t making it any easier for him.

He sips at his gimlet, trying very hard not to gulp the entire thing down. It’s Niall’s night and Harry really doesn’t want to be the one being carried home. But his nerves are on fire and his baby blue sheer top is soaked through with sweat — whether it’s his own or it’s a byproduct of the humid room and the collection of other people’s bodily fluids hanging in the air, Harry doesn’t know. Even with his hair pulled back in braids, he can feel the sweat pooling at the base of his neck and dripping into the small of his back. The heat is uncomfortable and makes it difficult to breathe properly.

During a normal night out, Harry might be out there on the dance floor with Niall, the two of them jumping and shouting out the words to whatever remixes were playing and dazzling the crowd, but Harry still has an article to finish before noon tomorrow, and he can’t risk being too hungover to write or sleeping in too late. Which is unfortunate, because Harry’s mind is frayed, and he would love nothing more than to lose himself to the music and alcohol and enjoy celebrating his friend’s success. 

He takes another desperate sip. 

A body slides up next to him, leaning against the bar top and pressing their heated skin against his bicep. The person’s low voice orders a gimlet, and Harry almost laughs, wanting to make a joke about how they’ve got the same taste in classic cocktails, but the words die on his tongue. He doesn’t know what’s wrong, why he suddenly feels so awkward all the time, or when he lost his ability to casually chat up strangers. Harry has always known he’s charming (when he wants to be) and how easy it is to capture a person’s attention just by smiling and popping out his signature dimples. It used to be so easy.

Maybe that’s why it’s gotten harder. He doesn’t want to make anyone fall for him. Not like that. Not even briefly.

“Are you always the brooding type?” The person beside him asks, their arm pressing closer against his own.

Harry blinks and looks over to see a man, maybe a few years older than him, openly admiring his profile. “Excuse me?”

The man chuckles, low and flirty, and Harry’s stomach flips without his permission. “I’m sorry, I just couldn’t help but notice you brooding over here, so I thought I’d buy you a drink.”

Harry fish mouths for a moment before the bartender comes over, handing the man’s gimlet to him with a not-so-subtle wink. 

“Thank you,” he says, his eyes still tracing the lines of Harry’s face. Instead of drinking, the man slides the cocktail glass closer to Harry. “That’s for you.”

His eyes flick between the man and the cocktail. “I don’t accept drinks from strange men, sorry.”

The man shares that flirty laugh again and Harry digs his nails into his palms. “My name is Jeff.” He smiles. “See? Not a stranger anymore.”

Harry scoffs and shakes his head, opting to take a sip of his own drink. What a cheesy fucking pickup line.

Jeff smiles and takes the cocktail back, bringing the glass to his lips and downing almost half of the drink. “There, see? It’s safe, I promise.”

“Well now that you’ve gone and drank half of it, what makes you think I want it anymore?” Harry drawls, rolling his eyes dramatically, before inwardly cringing at his own flirty tone. 

Another laugh. “I’ll keep this one, but let me buy you another, please.”

Harry hums with his lips pressed to the rim of his glass, his tongue peeking out slightly as he pretends to think about it. He notices immediately how Jeff’s eyes flick down to his mouth, his pupils black and wanting. Fuck, he really needs to stop this. “I’m fine, but thanks.”

Jeff rolls his eyes, muttering something unkind under his breath, before stalking away. Harry watches him leave until the slight pressure in his chest lessens and he lets out a long breath. His nerves are on fire, snapping and crackling all the way from his toes to the crown of his head. 

“Well, that guy was a creep.” 

Harry turns to his other side to find another man, sitting on one of the bar stools a couple feet away. “Tell me about it.”

The man smiles at him, but it’s not as menacing or creepy as Jeff’s. He’s got on a nice pair of trousers that hug his thighs and a red t-shirt hanging loose around his shoulders, exposing his collarbones. His eyes are a deep, welcoming brown. “Order yourself a drink on my tab. You deserve it after dealing with that bullshit. I promise not to chat you up, either.”

Harry laughs, but shakes his head. “I’m fine, but thank you for the offer.”

He walks around the bar to a spot that’s more or less empty, away from the hungry eyes of the other clubgoers. He calls over the bartender and ends up ordering three extra gimlets. Which means Harry is no longer buzzed or tipsy, but teetering on the edge of full blown drunk, and there’s a tiny voice in the back of his head that tells him he should stop, should walk away from the bar, find Niall, and head home. Because Harry really can’t be here anymore. He just can’t. HIs skin is burning and his head is throbbing and he can no longer see in a straight line.

He ends up on the dance floor, having gone in with the intention to find Niall and go home, but has somehow wound up with Jeff’s body pressed up behind him, their bodies bumping awkwardly to the beat thrumming in their ears. Harry’s frozen in place, caught like a deer in headlights and unable to move his limbs. He can’t spot Niall in the overflowing crowd. He feels trapped and immediately thinks back to the guy at the bar and his kind eyes, wishing that he had stayed there and waited for Niall, maybe had a conversation with the guy instead of running away. Almost immediately, a wave of defeat washes over him and Harry finds himself giving into the dance, letting Jeff hold his waist and push him along to the rhythm, keeping his eyes shut tight against the blinding lights.

The two of them dance for ages, up until the club announces last call and the dance floor begins to empty out around them, the other clubbers coming down from their collective high and trudging, exhausted, back to their respective homes. Harry’s no longer drunk, but the adrenaline is still pumping through his veins. Jeff is still behind him and Harry doesn’t know how to extricate himself or how to let the guy down easy. It seems incredibly rude to dance with him the whole night and then not give him what he so clearly wants. Harry’s tongue goes thick in his mouth. He knows those thoughts are bullshit, but they plague him anyways. He had rejected Jeff, yet the guy clearly had not gotten the hint.

Niall somehow appears a little while later after the crowd thins out, even more drunk than before, grinding with a pretty blonde woman but keeping close to Harry as soon as he spots him. It makes him feel incredible affection for his friend, knowing that no matter what, Niall will always find him and keep a watchful eye out for him.

At one point, Niall’s lips end up pressed against his ear and he can hear his voice, mixed with the bass of the music, asking, “Are you okay?”

Harry swallows and shakes his head. Niall nods and returns to the blonde, whispering something in her ear before sending her off and heading back towards Harry and Jeff.

“You ready to go, H?” He says, loud enough for Jeff to hear. Harry can feel the man behind him stutter in his movements, a pair of hands grabbing at his waist.

“You’re not leaving yet, are you?” Jeff asks, his lips brushing against Harry’s ear.

Harry huffs out a nervous laugh. “Yeah, I have to. Sorry. Work tomorrow and all that.” 

He reaches for Niall’s hand and holds onto it for dear life, but Jeff grabs at his other free hand, not letting him go that easily. “Can I at least get your number?”

“I—” 

“Sorry mate, he’s taken.” Niall throws an arm across Harry’s shoulders and plants a sloppy, wet kiss to his cheek. 

Jeff’s eyes furrow even deeper, confusion taking over his entire face. “Oh?”

“Bye!” Niall yells, waving exaggeratedly and steering Harry towards the door.

They walk in silence towards the car, the cool air of the night shocking Harry’s system and bringing his surroundings back into focus. He tries to keep his pace steady, ignoring the tremble in his arms and legs. When they reach the car park, Niall tosses his keys to Harry before collapsing into the passenger seat of the silver Audi, his red-blotchy face pressed against the leather seat. 

Harry takes a deep breath and drives them home carefully, only daring to wake Niall up once they are back home to help him walk up the stairs. It’s slow and painful, and Harry can feel the weariness creeping underneath his skin and into his bones, but they make it to the flat eventually. 

“Are you okay?” Niall asks, eyes heavy with sleep. 

Harry bites his lip. “Yeah. ‘M fine.”

He rarely ever lies to Niall, but he also knows that even if he wanted to talk, now is not the time for it. They’re both exhausted and sweat-drenched and still a little buzzed. All Harry wants is to go to bed and curl up beneath his silk sheets. Niall eyes him carefully, but shrugs, either too tired or still too drunk to notice the sag in Harry’s shoulders or the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He takes a deep breath to steady himself as Niall stumbles away, muttering a ‘goodnight’ before shutting his bedroom door. 

The moment the flat falls silent, Harry carries himself on shaky legs towards the bathroom for a quick shower, the tears slipping down his cheeks in slow, painful waves. He doesn’t know why he’s crying, or why there’s a deep, relentless sadness churning against his chest trying to break free. Harry doesn’t know anything anymore. He hasn’t known anything for a long time. He doesn’t know if he feels guilty for letting Jeff dance on him or angry with himself for going to the club in the first place or sad about the emptiness that threatens to cave in on him whenever he even considers letting someone in — like that guy from the bar, who had seemed perfectly nice, yet Harry had still walked away from him.

After he’s scrubbed his body raw and slipped into a clean pair of boxers, Harry burrows himself beneath his duvet and clutches his silk sheets around his chest, trying to practice some breathing techniques he’d learned from a self help book his sister, Gemma, had given him a while back. Long breath in — hold — steady exhale — hold — repeat. But it doesn’t do any good. The sadness threatens to crush him and the tears won’t stop coming out, hot and stinging against his skin.

Harry falls asleep feeling unbearably lonely, wishing, for once, that he had someone there to help hold the broken pieces of himself together. 

+++

The next day, Harry wakes up feeling like he’s been run over by a tractor, not once, but over and over again until his insides have been flattened. It’s been a while since he’s had a hangover this bad. He feels like fucking roadkill. 

But he sits up, rubbing the crust from his eyes and scrambling to turn the alarm off on his phone, the shrill sound making his head throb and brain turn into sludge. He glances at the time and realizes it’s ten o’clock, which only gives him two hours to finish his article and send it over to his editor. Harry groans and clutches at his head.

This is exactly what he’d been trying to avoid. 

The front door to their flat slams and Harry winces, the sound of Niall’s chipper whistles making him far more irritable than it should. That man hardly ever gets hungover. Harry thinks it’s the Irish in him, and often voices this opinion, but Niall claims it’s because he knows his limits, always with the insinuation that Harry doesn’t. Which. Fair enough. But Harry still thinks Niall’s Irish blood is to blame. Stupid Irishman.

The devil in question barges into Harry’s room without knocking (which, he really should, they’ve had far too many awkward moments in the past) and chucks a paper bag at his bare feet, the smell of fresh bread and something greasy attacking his nostrils, pulling at his gut in a way that makes him both nauseous and ravenous. 

He reaches for it and groans at the sight of a cheese croissant. “Thank you.”

Niall also sets a mug of coffee on his bedside table — two milks, no sugar — staring down at Harry as he pulls apart the croissant, moaning in delight the moment the cheese hits his tongue. “Jesus, it’s just a croissant, mate. Don’t be so obscene.”

Harry scoffs before smirking. “Cheese croissants are like an orgasm for the mouth. Of course I’m going to be obscene.”

Niall cackles at that and perches himself on the edge of Harry’s bed, watching as Harry munches and sips at his breakfast. He knows that there’s a conversation coming, if the look in Niall’s eyes is any indication, and that causes Harry to slow down his chewing, the croissant going stale in his mouth. “What is it?”

“How are you?” Niall asks, getting straight to the point. That’s the one thing Harry loves about his friend — but he also simultaneously hates it. “Really. No bullshit.”

“‘M fine, really. Last night was just . . . bad.”

“Bad how?” Niall purses his lips. “I know you’ve been lost in your head lately, but I can’t help you if you don’t share with me.”

“It’s not really something anyone can help me with,” Harry mumbles. His fingers continue to pick at the croissant in his hands, though his appetite has disappeared.

“I can try.”

Harry sighs. “It’s like . . . I’ve been keeping myself closed off for so long that I don’t even know how to be a part of the world anymore. And last night, at the bar and on the dance floor . . . It used to be so easy, and now it’s hard, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Baby steps, H.” 

“It’s been two years,” he deadpans. “I shouldn’t be this fucked up still.”

Niall frowns. “You’ve gotten your heart broken more times than I can count. It’s not just Noah. You’ve been hurt. You need to give yourself time to heal, but you also can’t nurse your wounds.”

“I’m trying.”

“Are you?” 

Harry huffs in frustration. No, he hasn’t really been trying. _Niall_ has been the one trying. He invites Harry out to the pub and to work events and introduces him to new people, and Harry obliges, but he’s never fully put himself back out there. He knows this; Niall knows it, too. At every outing and event, Harry is the first one to leave, ending the nights curled up beneath his sheets and pretending to be fine. Sometimes not bothering to pretend at all — like last night — allowing himself to drown inside the sadness before the exhaustion takes over. There’s a piece of Harry that’s hidden, tucked away so deep inside himself that he doesn’t even know where it is, wouldn’t be able to retrieve it even if he tried.

“I’m going to try harder,” he says. 

Niall shakes his head. “You don’t need to prove anything to me. I want you to do what makes you comfortable, but I need you to talk to me, H. I hate not knowing what you’re thinking.”

“Okay,” he says, fingers fidgeting. 

“Okay.” 

+++

When Harry finds the energy to drag himself out of bed, it is nearing eleven and he only has an hour to turn in his final article draft. He swears profusely, earning a raised brow from Niall, before running back to his room and grabbing his laptop. 

“Do you mind proofreading my article?” Harry asks. 

He knows Niall will say yes. He always says yes. “Sure, babe.”

Harry laughs and swats at his arm, handing over the laptop. “Thanks, babe.”

They’re sitting in the living room, relaxing into their Saturday tradition, their conversation from earlier settled for now. And there’s no tension like before, which calms Harry’s insides immensely. The television is playing Sky Bet and the Blackpool v. Doncaster Rovers game is set to begin at any moment. Harry leans forward in anticipation, elbows resting on his knees. The two sportscasters are currently bantering, but it all goes in one ear and out the other for him. There’s a bundle of anticipation resting in his gut — it happens during every match Tomlinson plays — but this time is different, because Harry knows they’ll be meeting soon. 

He still can’t quite grasp it.

For him, Tomlinson has always been an unattainable dream, a blueprint guy to compare all other potential boyfriends to. Sometimes Harry thinks maybe he actually dreamt him up, but then he’ll see a clipping of him in the newspaper or watch him play on the telly and it’ll hit him that Louis Tomlinson is a real person. And it’s easy to put someone on a pedestal when they are less tangible, and Harry knows full well he’s reached a point where he not only idolizes, but worships a man he’s never met. It’s one of the many reasons why meeting him in person will be all the more awkward and uncomfortable.

He sighs and sits back, his lips twitching upwards as Tomlinson appears on the screen. He’s being interviewed by one of the sportscasters, donned from head to toe in red and white. Harry traces his eyes along the lines of his jaw and cheekbones, all the way out to his nose and down to his chin, swooping further towards his neck and collarbones until he’s mapped out the entirety of his body. 

God, he’s a creep.

“You’re a creep,” Niall says, interrupting his thought with his own mirrored observation. 

Harry jolts and turns to find Niall staring at him, his eyebrow quirked. “I know.”

He can’t help it. Something about Louis Tomlinson makes him ache inside, like he’s being pulled by an invisible string taut tight from the distance between them. And, no, he doesn’t think it’s the soulmate thing. It’s _not._ (He can’t let himself dwell on those thoughts.) Louis is just . . . really nice to look at.

“What are you going to do when you meet the guy?” Niall shoves the laptop back towards Harry, pointing to the handful of constructive criticisms he’s written. “You can’t look at him like that. You’ll scare him off for sure.”

Harry reads Niall’s comments and begins to work out the kinks in his article, rephrasing awkward sentences and rearranging paragraphs to make the writing flow easier. “I’m not going to scare him off. I’ll be perfectly civil.”

Niall snorts.

“I know how to control myself, thank you very much.” He says it with as much indignation he can muster, but even Harry doesn’t fully believe his own words. “Besides, I’m not going to go out of my way to see him.”

“Er . . . about that.” Niall glances at him with a guilty expression and Harry swears his stomach almost falls out of his ass. “When I spoke to his agent yesterday, he mentioned going out to dinner next weekend to thank me for setting all of this up and to solidify some details, and I kind of, sort of, asked if I could bring a friend. _Annndd_ I already told them my friend’s name is Harry, so you’re coming.”

“What.”

“It’s just one dinner.” Niall is pleading, literally fucking pouting his lips like a puppy and widening his eyes in the way he knows Harry can’t deny. It’s completely unfair. 

“You said I would only have to interview him.” His palms are sweating again — it’s becoming a huge problem for him — and he tries, unsuccessfully, to dry them by patting at the couch cushions.

“It’s a group dinner. Me, you, Louis, and Zayn. No pressure. Very casual.” Niall makes a motion like a cross over his heart and kisses his fingers, as though his promise makes Harry’s racing heart slow down whatsoever.

“Sounds like a double date to me.” 

“Nah. Zaynie and I are the chaperones.”

Harry’s eyebrows shoot upwards. “Nicknames already? You and Zayn seem to have become fast friends.”

“We’ve been texting.” Niall shrugs. 

“About?” 

“Footy, mostly.” 

Harry hums, not quite believing him but not wanting to push the subject further. He has the sneaking impression that Niall has already recruited Zayn into his matchmaking scheme, but if that’s the case, Harry has zero control of the situation at this point. It’s best to just ignore that it’s happening. 

“Speaking of,” Niall bounces up in his seat, grabbing the remote and turning the volume up on the television. “The match is about to start.”

“Shit.” Harry hasn’t finished his article yet, and the time reads exactly noon. He rushes through the final edits, trying not to let himself get distracted by the game. Five minutes later, he emails it to his editor with a brief apology for its tardiness and hopes for the best.

They fall into an easy silence then, watching the football players run back and forth on the pitch, calling out to each other for passes and moving fluidly on the grass. Harry has often thought of football as a sort of dance, with bodies gliding and grazing and gallivanting, the field an expanded version of a dancefloor. They play a game with their motions, teasing the opposite team, bodies orbiting around one another until they inevitably crash when the speed of the dance becomes too much, gravity forcing them to collide. Football never fails to entrance Harry and leave him breathless, almost as though he’s a part of it, in some symbolic way. A mere spectator. An admirer.

It’s worse when Tomlinson is on the screen because he moves with more grace and anyone else, his kicks quick and precise, his arms pulsing to a tempo only he can hear. Compared to the rest of the players, who would probably end up as backup dancers, Tomlinson is the star of the show. The head ballerina. He dips and twirls and slides across the pitch like he was born for it, like the dance floor was crafted just for him.

Or something.

When the game is over and the Doncaster Rovers have claimed their victory (3-1), Niall receives a short phone call from Zayn, of which Harry can glean none of the details. But when Niall hangs up and looks over at him with a blazing smile, he thinks that it can mean only one thing.

“We’ve got the whole fucking team, baby!” Before he can register what’s happening, Harry finds himself in Niall’s arms, thrown over his shoulder in a haphazard way, his fingers grazing the floor. Niall twirls their bodies in a dramatic pirouette. “They’re all gonna come by every other week to practice and get to know the other team and sponsors. We got ‘em!”

Harry, still dangling upside down over his friend’s shoulder, is on the verge of fainting at this point (and not just from the blood rushing to his head), because holy shit _,_ one of his favorite teams is coming to play their charity match. One of his favorite players will be here within the week, _and_ he’s going to dinner with him. It’s all been made official now. And all of that seems to be a little too good to be true, doesn’t it?

+++

When Harry’s article comes out the next morning, he receives a phone call from Liam asking to take him out to lunch as a thank you, and Harry agrees to it immediately, eager to start his plan to befriend the guy. They share a pleasant, albeit short, conversation over the phone, which leads Harry to believe that maybe Mission Friendship _is_ possible, despite the awkward circumstances of their first few encounters. 

Harry had tried to write a positive article, not because he had started to believe in soulmates or anything (certainly not), but because he knew Liam was a genuinely decent guy. Decent enough for Harry to want to get to know better, anyway.

He doesn’t even wonder how Liam got his phone number until later that day, leaving Harry with another round of unanswered questions on his lips.

+++  
  


**The Person Behind the Paintings by Harry Styles**

_There is nothing average about Holmes Chapel's newest resident, celebrity artist, and psychic extraordinaire, Liam Payne. At age 27, Payne has discovered his life's passion and decided to share it with the rest of the world in the form of acrylic paintings, which the psychic suggests are representative of each individual's soulmate._

_Every painting is created for each person specifically, and Payne describes his creative process as something akin to putting together a puzzle. "Each person is different; each aura is different; and each image I see requires me to fit it together in different ways."_

_Though many have come to Payne's Psychic Readings, which is located in downtown Holmes Chapel, searching for fulfillment in their love lives, Payne shares an alternate view. "I've never claimed that the people I paint are a person's true love . . . a soulmate is someone who just gets you. Whether it's romantic or platonic doesn't matter. It's the feeling of being complete."_

_Before finding his path in clairvoyance, Payne studied Classical Music and earned his degree while living in London. Though he now describes his paintings as his life’s true calling, Payne claims that he was also drawn to classical music because “it triggered something deep and urgent inside of [him].” Luckily for the rest of us, Payne still makes music, and will often play his compositions within the shop, which adds to the ambience and calming environment that he works hard to cultivate._

_Being a romantic at heart, Payne states that he decided to help others find their soulmates because he wanted to “help put more love and acceptance into the world.”_

_When asked why he chose Holmes Chapel as his base, Payne recalls having fond memories of his childhood here. “I spent three years of primary school [here] and I’ve been itching to come back for a while now . . . the timing wasn’t right until just recently.”_

_Payne’s Psychic Readings can be found on Middlewich Road near Costa Coffee. The shop is open weekdays from 10 A.M. until 4 P.M., except on Wednesdays, when the shop closes at 3 P.M. sharp. It’s not hard to miss. All you have to look for is a crowd of adoring fans, and you’ll know you’re in the right place._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry meets Louis. Multiple times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This song fits the entire chapter: https://youtu.be/RTUOqO-Hj8E
> 
> Enjoy!

The first time Harry sees Louis Tomlinson in person, he spills coffee all over himself.

The moment is like a scene from a romantic comedy, and Harry can’t help but scoff at the irony of it all. Of course his love of romcoms would be used against him at such a crucial moment. And of course _he_ would be the one embarrassing himself. The universe loves meddling with his life and making him miserable, it seems.

That morning the wind had taken on a more prominent chill, the warmth of summer finally fading as autumn took the reins. He’d just grabbed breakfast at Costa Coffee and was munching on his bagel happily, heading next door to surprise Liam with a donut, when he spotted a familiar spot of brown hair coming towards him. Harry stood frozen on the sidewalk as he watched Tomlinson practically saunter down the street, chatting quietly with a black-haired man beside him, who — for the record — looked like he was meant to be hung up in an art museum. But Harry only had eyes for Tomlinson.

The footballer was shorter in person, his hourglass shape more well-defined, even beneath all the layers. He sported a pair of black Adidas track pants and a matching hoodie, though Harry could tell he was still cold by the clenched hands shoved into his pockets. The navy blue beanie on his head was pulled back so the swoop of his fringe was just barely visible.

Beautiful is the word he would use to describe him. Or perhaps ruggedly handsome. Pictures and videos had not done him justice, that much was certain.

He seemed different, too. Tomlinson was always a bundle of energy on the field and in interviews, never stopping his movements, bouncing up and down on his heels or making exaggerated motions with his hands as he spoke. An intense cloud of liveliness surrounded him in those moments. But here, in the middle of Holmes Chapel on a chilly Saturday morning, Harry could sense that this was a softened version of him. More comfortable. Real.

Harry swore, for a moment, that he could see his aura.

But that’s bullshit. Obviously. 

It took Harry too long to realize that he had been staring, and soon Tomlinson and his friend were too close, and he had lost all feeling in his legs. They were heading straight for Liam’s shop, where Harry was standing like an idiot, eyes wide and mouth gaping so wide he was sure drool would start dribbling out. He tried to school his features, come across as indifferent, but his nervous habits overpowered his limbs, hands reaching to adjust his jumper as his brain short-circuited and completely forgot about the coffee cup in his hand.

Really, he deserved it, looking back.

The first feeling he remembers is the hot, searing pain of fresh coffee spilling all over his chest and dripping down to his stomach. The second feeling he remembers is a pair of careful hands stripping the jumper from his body, leaving him in nothing but a thin white t-shirt. There might have been some voices surrounding him as well, but Harry’s ears were buzzing too loudly to make any of it out. 

When he finally looked up his gaze locked on a pair of sea-blue eyes, wide and concerned, staring at him from only a few feet away. The hands, it seemed, belonged to Liam, who — being the clairvoyant he is — had probably sensed Harry’s imminent doom and had come to rescue him. He had also started patting Harry’s chest with a handful of paper towels. What a hero. 

“Jesus, are you okay?” The man beside Tomlinson asked, a burning cigarette hanging, forgotten, between his slender fingers.

Maybe it was the delirium from the pain, or the remnants of his short-circuiting brain, because Harry couldn’t stop the next words from leaving his mouth even if he tried. “I’m Harry, not Jesus.”

Normally he was pretty good about keeping his ridiculous jokes to himself — most people simply didn’t understand his humor — but it just didn’t seem to be his day, now did it? 

A look of recognition flashed over the black-haired man’s face and he opened his mouth to speak, but then a tinkle of laughter sounded beside him, a jolt of electricity running up and down Harry’s spine at the sound. He looked back towards Tomlinson, who was trying to cover his laugh by coughing into his elbow, and Harry’s heart jumped in response. Because of course he was already obsessed with that laugh. Of course. He would spill coffee on himself all over again if it meant hearing that laugh.

Liam, who had disappeared at some point, returned with a new jumper in his hands and handed it over to Harry. “Luckily you don’t seem to have any bad burns. I’d count that as a win.”

He accepted the jumper without looking up, afraid to see whether or not Liam recognized who exactly was standing in front of them. Whether he remembered painting Louis’ face not too long ago or giving the painting to Harry himself. The thought made him shiver.

Instead, he snorted, staring down at his hands. “Luckily my jumper is brown, so it shouldn’t stain.”

“At least you have your priorities straight,” Tomlinson said. 

Harry locked eyes with him again, but had to force himself to look away, the thoughts of _blue blue blue_ becoming too much. His peach-colored boots tapped at the concrete in an uneven beat. “It’s my favorite jumper. I’d be devastated if I had to retire her.”

When he glanced back towards Tomlinson, his easy smile was wide. “Here’s to hoping she makes a speedy recovery.”

Harry might have run away after that, shoving Liam’s forgotten donut in his face and making some excuse about laundry. He doesn’t even know. It wasn’t his proudest moment. All he can remember is the glint in Louis’ eyes as he laughed and the heat in Harry’s stomach when they shared a look. And the sheer amount of embarrassment he’d put himself through. That, too.

He also may have spied on them from across the street, watching in mute horror as both Tomlinson and his friend entered Payne’s Psychic Readings, the heat in his stomach turning ice cold. Like a knife to the gut.

+++

The second time Harry sees Louis Tomlinson is at the local football pitch later that day. 

As soon as he had gone home, he’d cornered and yelled at Niall for not warning him about Tomlinson coming to town early. He hadn’t been expecting to see him at all until dinner and this morning had shaken him more than he cared to admit. Niall had laughed it off and said, “I’m not his handler, Harry.”

But when he told the story, leaving out none of the excruciating details, his friend had winced in sympathy. “I’m sure this afternoon will be better.”

“What do you mean, afternoon? Dinner is at seven.”

Niall stared at him blankly. “You’re coming to the pitch.”

“No. No way. I’m not embarrassing myself even more.” Harry ran one hand through his curls as the other picked nervously at his fresh white t-shirt.

“You’ll be fine, H. Please? For me?”

“What do you even need me there for?” 

“Moral support?”

Harry had snorted, flipping Niall off with both hands before stomping away to start on his laundry. And although he hadn’t planned on going to the pitch, Niall had pestered and probed the rest of the morning until Harry felt like he had no choice.

The field was empty when they arrived, which made it a lot easier to spot Tomlinson — though Harry knew he would have seen him immediately, regardless. He was wearing the same outfit as the morning, except with his sweatshirt stripped off and thrown to the side. He was talking to his friend again, juggling a football between both hands and smiling as the wind pulled at his thin black t-shirt, the material molding to his waist briefly before falling back down. His first thought was about Louis’ tinkling laughter and soft smile under the morning sun, and then the cold shock that reverberated through Harry’s bones as he watched him enter Liam’s shop. 

Harry felt his mouth go dry and Niall had to drag him by the arm towards the benches, pursing his lips and saying, “What are we going to do with you?”

“You’re the one who dragged me here!” Harry squawked.

“You need to be acclimated, clearly. I’m doing you a favor.”

He huffed, crossing his arms and stubbornly digging his heels into the ground. “I told you I wasn’t going to seek him out.”

“And you’re not. You’re here for me as moral support, remember?”

“You’re such a dick. What happened to not doing anything I don’t want to?”

Niall mirrored Harry and crossed his arms as well, though it looked more intimidating when he did it. “H, you know I have your best interests at heart, right?”

“Usually.”

“Then trust me, okay?”

Before Harry could respond, Niall started heading for the pitch again, towards the spot where Louis and his friend were standing, their heads turned in Harry and Niall’s direction and eyeing the two of them from afar. 

Well. He’d been spotted. There was no going back.

“Niall!” Tomlinson’s friend called, waving excitedly like a child on a playground. 

“Zayn!” Niall called, opening his arms wide and walking towards the other two men, Harry trudging slowly behind. “So glad you could make it.”

Ah, so _that_ was Tomlinson’s manager, then. Harry should have picked up on it sooner, but he’d been too distracted by seeing Tomlinson in the flesh to make the connection.

Niall approached and shook both of their hands, the three of them sharing greetings while Harry hung back, his hands clasped behind his back and feet crossed at the ankles, waiting for a sudden surge of courage to possess him. When it didn’t come, Niall turned to face him and smiled wide, his arm moving back to gesture towards Harry. “This is my best mate, Harry. I believe you met briefly this morning.”

Zayn grimaced at the memory. “Yeah. I’m Zayn, by the way. Still no burns, I hope?”

Harry shook his head, still struggling to locate the correct part of his brain that controlled speech. 

“Did the jumper survive?” Tomlinson’s voice interrupted, light and playful, causing a whoosh of breath to escape Harry’s lips in the form of a strangled laugh.

He tried to cover it by coughing into his elbow, but he could still see the knowing smirk on Tomlinson’s face. “Yeah, she survived. Thankfully.”

Tomlinson nodded. “Good. Though I see you’ve replaced her.”

“Only temporarily.”

“Right. We don’t want her getting jealous.”

Harry found himself smiling and bit down on his cheek, trying to keep his emotions in check. He directed his attention to Zayn and held out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you both.”

Tomlinson startled then, almost like he’d been caught off guard. “Oh, shit. I forgot to introduce myself, didn’t I? Hi, I’m Louis. Sorry.”

“I know.” Harry bit down on his cheek so hard he could taste blood. “I’m a huge fan.”

Niall chuckled, elbowing Zayn in the side. “HUGE fan. That’s Harry.”

Wow, subtle.

If looks could kill, Harry’s glare would have been trialed for murder.

But Louis didn’t seem to notice, instead softening his smile as he looked at Harry. “Oh yeah? I’m proper honored.”

“The honor’s all mine.” 

Louis grinned at him and turned to look out at the field with assessing eyes, which, compared to the places he normally played, Harry imagined didn’t look like much. “This pitch is well-kept. Not a bad size, either.”

Niall was practically bouncing on his toes. “It’s a great place. The only issue is a lack of spectator seating, but I’m working on it.”

“And you’re sure we can use the space for practices?”

“Absolutely. I already booked every other Wednesday for you guys and worked it around your practice schedule with Zayn.”

Louis smiled and threw an arm around his manager, pinching his cheeks with affection. “That’s my Zayn. Always on top of things.”

It all seemed to be going well. Harry could feel the tension slowly leaving his shoulders as the seconds passed, the gentle gaze and kind smile Louis kept sharing with him enough to have his toes curling inside his trainers. He had the feeling that Louis knew how nervous he was and was making the intentional effort to make him feel welcome. The thought had his heart fluttering.

But then Niall had suggested they play a quick game of footy, mono a mono, Louis/Zayn v. Niall/Harry. Just so Louis could “get a feel for the field.” If the other two were surprised they didn’t show it, and even appeared enthusiastic about the idea, but Harry couldn’t hide the shock in his expression. Niall quirked an eyebrow his way, as though challenging him to refuse, and Harry’s cheeks burned in anger. 

As great of a friend as Niall was, Harry wanted to kill him sometimes.

“Okay,” he grit out. Though Harry knew it was a bad idea that would only lead to humiliation, he thought it might be even more humiliating to back out. 

The four of them walked out onto the pitch, Louis juggling the ball between his hands. As though sensing Harry’s apprehension, he looked back and flashed a smile. “Don’t worry. We’ll go easy on you.”

True to his word, Louis and Zayn kept an easy pace with the two of them, casually chatting and keeping their fancy footwork to a minimum. Harry kept up well enough, despite his limited practical knowledge of the game. Watching footy, he could understand. Playing was an entirely different monster. He was glad that Niall had more experience than him; it was easier to pass the ball off and run at an easy pace without worrying about Louis or Zayn tripping him up. He also rather enjoyed the moments where Louis would run up to him, blocking his access to a pass from Niall, pressing into Harry’s personal bubble like it was nothing.

And Harry was having fun — a blast even — finding ways to banter not only with Niall and Zayn, but Louis too. He was thankful for the cold and the exercise to hide the blush that crept onto his cheeks every time Louis so much as glanced his way. He tried to ignore the fact that Tomlinson was so close to him, and that he was somehow being given the rare opportunity to see his favorite player practice football up close and personal.

Of course, just as he was starting to get into the groove of things was when it all went south. Louis and Zayn had already scored twice. Harry had just gotten the ball in his possession, dribbling it down the pitch as fast as he could, trying to scan his surroundings in his peripheral but not seeing any of the other guys in his vicinity. Niall was nowhere near close enough for him to pass the ball, so Harry went for it. He had nearly reached the goal post when Louis shot out of nowhere, running towards him like a fucking bullet train, swiping the ball away from his feet and heading towards the opposite end of the field. Harry flailed in surprise, his arms swinging blindly as he lost his footing, grasping for anything to keep him upright.

And that’s when he pantsed Louis Tomlinson.

+++

Now, Harry is inside a fancy restaurant, completely underdressed, his cheeks burning as he sits across from Louis — making this the third time today that they’ve been thrust together. He’s trying not to think too much about it, but the longer the day goes on, the tighter his chest begins to feel. The more it begins to feel like the universe — or Niall — is out to get him.

Niall had been the one to practically drag him out the door. 

Louis is wearing a navy blue blazer with a white button down underneath, a red flower pinned to his lapel, looking gorgeous as usual. Zayn is seated beside him and dressed head-to-toe in a black suit and a black turtleneck, his black hair slicked back into a small ponytail. The pair look like models pulled straight out of a GQ magazine. Niall and Harry stick out like sore thumbs in comparison and Harry tries not to fidget in his seat. They had dressed up, of course, but the entire restaurant screams suit and tie, with its hanging chandeliers, deep red carpet, and an actual classical piano player performing in the corner. 

As soon as they had driven up and seen the opulent building, Harry had hit Niall’s arm multiple times, despite his friend claiming he’d had no idea about the poshness of the place. Harry had only punched him, yelling “Casual dinner?!” before punching him again. And again for good measure. He had fretted inside the car, buttoning up his cream-colored silk top so that his chest was no longer exposed and tucking it into his skinny black trousers, staring down at his glittery boots with an impending sense of doom. And now that they’re seated at their table, surrounded by such extravagance, Harry still feels out of place, which only adds to his growing frustration; he had worked hard to find the perfect outfit for tonight and now it was all wrong. He’d already met Louis twice and managed to muck it up both times. Tonight was meant to be his third chance. (Literally.)

Niall looks slightly more put-together in a light blue striped button down, a gray jacket thrown over top, and a pair of grey trousers to match. He’s also the only one from their side of the table keeping the conversation going. Harry has lost his ability to speak once again, because Louis just complimented his shirt.

“Harry is a journalist,” he hears Niall say. “He writes for our local paper. Good fucking stuff, too.”

“Is that so?” Zayn grins, bringing his glass of wine to his lips. “What sort of articles do you write?”

Harry swallows the lump in his throat. “I mean, a little bit of everything, I guess. I’m the general news guy, so I have a lot more freedom when it comes to topics.”

“What’s your favorite article you’ve published?” Louis chimes in, eyes twinkling.

“Erm,” Harry tries to think, but there’s static in his brain. He has to pinch his own knee just to keep himself steady.

“There was that one profile you wrote about your mum recently.” Niall suggests, glancing at Harry before turning towards the other two. “She rode on the wing of a plane to raise money for Parkinson’s research. I think I cried when I read it.”

“You did not.”

“Okay, I didn’t _cry_ , but there were tears.”

Harry shakes his head. “That was one of my better ones, although I was a bit of a biased writer. But I swear, that’s a rarity. Most of the breaking news in Holmes Chapel is mundane. Not much to write about if I’m honest.”

Zayn whistles. “You’re mum sounds like a badass, though.”

The soft smile spreads on his face before he can stop himself. “Yeah. She’s great.”

“I’d like to read that article sometime,” Louis says, meeting Harry’s eyes over the rim of his wine glass. “Sounds like an incredible experience.”

Before Harry can respond, Niall jumps in. Again. “I have my own clippings of all his pieces. You should definitely look through them.”

Harry takes a very long drink of wine.

“Have you ever thought of writing for a larger paper?” Louis’ chin is resting on his hands and he’s staring at Harry as though he’s interested in his career, like he actually cares, and Harry can feel his hands begin to shake. He has to set the wine glass down carefully before bringing his hands to his lap, toying with the fabric of his trousers as a way to keep them occupied.

“I’ve looked at a few places around here.” 

That was an understatement. Harry had applied to dozens of different newspapers throughout Manchester for the past two years, but none of them were hiring. The newspaper industry is a dying one, so staff sizes are small and many places have started to go out of business. The most practical route for Harry to choose would be working for a website, but he can’t find it in him to let go of the physical thing. There is something about the printing press, about holding the finished product in his hands that feels _right_.

Zayn smiles. “I have connections throughout Yorkshire. You could expand your search.”

Harry freezes. He’s hardly known Louis and Zayn for twelve hours — and most of that time he’s spent acting like a bumbling idiot — yet Zayn is sitting here, offering to help him find a better job, and he seems sincere. For some reason, this small, kind gesture causes Harry’s breath to hitch.

“I’ll think about it.”

He needs a breath of fresh air. That’s what he needs right now.

He’s about to excuse himself from the table just as their waiters arrive, carrying plates and plates of food towards them. Harry doesn’t even remember ordering, but there’s a dish being set in front of him, which looks a lot like ratatouille. His favorite.

“Niall told me you were a vegetarian,” Louis says. “And since we were coming to a French restaurant, I realized it would be hard for you to find many options, so I ordered ahead for all of us. I hope that’s okay.”

 _Shit, shit, shit_ , is what’s running through Harry’s mind. His heart is exploding and he swears he has heart eyes. But all that comes out of his mouth is: “Yeah, thanks.”

He should be affronted that Louis didn’t ask what he wanted, that he was presumptuous enough to order for everyone, yet all he feels is endearment. Because he asked about Harry’s dietary restrictions. Nobody has ever done that before. Not only that, but he somehow chose Harry’s favorite dish.

“I’ll eat anything.” Niall shrugs, diving into his coq au vin, moaning around his fork in a way that causes the other diners to glare at their table in disgust. Harry ducks his head in embarrassment, but Zayn and Louis are laughing, so he tries for a small smile as he takes a bite of his own meal. The vegetables are cooked to absolute perfection and Harry closes his eyes in ecstasy. 

“Here, try the gougére.” Louis passes a basket of puff pastries towards Harry. “It’s basically a savory pastry with cheese baked in. I swear, the first time I ate one, I almost came in my pants.”

The entire table laughs as Harry splutters, his cheeks bright red, heart fluttering in his chest. Not because of the sexual innuendo (though that definitely doesn’t help), but because he’s sort of amazed that they both share the same strange affinity for cheesy pastries. 

Niall raises his eyebrows at Harry, clearly remembering Harry moaning around his croissant the other morning and licking at his fingers, but he doesn’t say a word. 

The rest of the dinner passes in a haze of shop talk, random debates, and the type of banter that makes it hard to believe that the four of them had only just met earlier in the day. Harry munches at his ratatouille and grougére and watches the others talk animatedly about the latest Star Wars movies (Louis’ favorite is Episode V) and then somehow delve straight into a discussion about the crumbling state of the UK parliament. He’s slightly tipsy on an expensive bottle of red wine — he thinks it’s a cabernet — and his stomach is content. The conversation hops around so often that it’s difficult for his alcohol-laden brain to keep up. And he’s forgotten all about making a complete fool of himself earlier, having pushed it to the back of his mind. Instead he focuses on staring at Louis’ face.

Because — he really cannot say this enough — Louis is pretty.

Like, really pretty.

Maybe it’s the lighting, or the wine giving him a crimson glow, or the fact that his face may have been chiseled by the gods themselves. Or all three. The shadows of the restaurant dance across his face, tumbling into the hollow of his cheeks as the dim lights shimmer along his cheekbones, creating the perfect contrast. Harry admires the way his eyelashes dust his skin lightly and bring out the shape of his eyes, which are hooded but also slightly almond. His lips have gone from light pink to a deep red, stained from the cabernet; the red stands out against his tanned skin and blue eyes and Harry has to restrain himself from bringing his thumb to Louis’ mouth. And God, don’t get him started on those eyes. Everything about him is contrast, contrast, contrast. Harry is absolutely fucking mesmerized. 

It takes him a while to realize he’s not being subtle, and even longer to realize that Louis is staring right back at him. He’s still talking — Harry can see his lips moving, the sound drowned out by the blood rushing in his ears — but his eyes are fixed on Harry’s face, studying him with a slight smirk.

Harry clears his throat, sliding his eyes down to his plate and picking at the remnants of his dinner. He can see Niall wearing his signature smug grin as he looks between Louis and Harry; he’s probably mentally patting himself on the back at this very moment. Zayn looks like he wants nothing more than to laugh.

“Let’s go to the pub,” Niall says.

Harry tries to kick him under the table, but ends up aiming completely wrong and hitting Louis’ shin instead. Louis winces and raises a single eyebrow at Harry, but the smirk is still on his face. He slowly turns his attention to Niall. “I already have a hotel for the night. I’m down for a party.”

Harry tries not to take the mention of a hotel as Louis flirting with him or being suggestive, because that would mean that the ball is now in his court, and that would mean that he has to decide whether to take up the invitation or leave Louis high and dry. Which, Harry is already tipsy on three glasses of wine, and if he goes to the pub, he knows he’ll have at least two more drinks. Anything can happen at that point, because five-drink Harry is a different Harry. A reckless Harry. Especially when wine is involved.

He absolutely cannot go back to Louis’ hotel.

“Yeah.” Zayn nods. “It’ll be good to blow off some steam.”

Niall looks over at Harry. “What say you, Hazza?”

There’s a long, painful silence as three pairs of eyes fall on him. Harry takes a long swig of wine, just for something to do, until he’s lapped up every last drop from the glass. He could say no, could force Niall to go home with him and cuddle until they both fall asleep, miserable. Or, he could take a chance for once. He could stop thinking so much over every little decision, stop worrying about the consequences, stop obsessing about worst case scenarios.

Yeah. That’s definitely the wine talking.

Harry lifts his eyes up and is met instantly by Louis’ blue. A calm, steady blue that appears to have darkened considerably within the past few hours, pupils taking up over half of his iris. Harry almost sighs (again) over how pretty he looks. He wants nothing more than to jump into the dark depths of those pupils and freefall into oblivion.

“I’m in.”

+++

Harry wakes up in an unfamiliar place. 

The first hint comes from scratchy sheets rubbing against his legs, the heavy fabric making his skin uncomfortable and itchy, alerting him to the fact that he is definitely not in his own bed. The second hint comes from the sound of bare feet tiptoeing — very badly, he might add — across the floor. He can hear someone trip over their own feet and swear quietly. The third hint comes when he cracks open his eyes and sees the room itself, arranged in a hotel-esque layout, complete with a standard queen-sized bed, a large television sitting on a dresser, and . . . a shirtless Louis Tomlinson tinkering with a Keurig, his muscular back facing Harry. 

A brief panic washes over him, but after mentally assessing his body’s tenderness levels and searching for any sore spots, Harry can safely confirm that he did _not_ have sex last night.

Which only adds to his overall confusion.

He attempts to move slightly in order to get a more panoramic view, but as soon as he does, the bed creaks and Louis turns to look at him. They stay like that, frozen and staring wide-eyed at one another for an eternity before Louis blushes and looks away.

Harry just blinks.

“Er, here. For your headache.” Louis is now holding up a bottle of aspirin in one hand and a glass of water in the other, carrying it towards Harry and setting it on the bedside table. He backs away towards the Keurig machine before Harry can even react.

But he does catch a whiff of him — vanilla and cigarettes. 

Harry loves vanilla.

He opens his mouth to say something, but ends up coughing instead. The sound of the water in the Keurig heating up fills the silence immediately afterwards. Harry doesn’t dare to look up, but he reaches for the bottle of aspirin desperately, fingers shaking slightly as he taps two pills out into his palm. Now that he’s sitting up, he has a much better view of the room, and he notices a couch situated in the corner near the window, where a heap of blankets and pillows are sitting. His stomach twists.

Not only did he wake up in Louis’ hotel bed, but he had forced Louis to sleep on the couch. 

“You don’t have to worry, you know,” Louis says, his back still facing Harry. “Nothing happened last night.”

Harry sighs as the cool water slides down his throat, taking the painkillers with it. “I know. I did a body check. Plus,” he points to the couch. “I’m assuming you slept there.”

A surprised laugh comes out of Louis’ mouth but he nods. “And here I thought you were asleep the whole time.”

“I’m very sneaky.” Harry shakes his head. “You’re not, though.”

“Hey, I tried to be quiet.”

They both chuckle at that. The strong smell of coffee then envelops the room and Harry nearly groans with yearning. The painkillers and water were nice, but his body is crying out for a hot cup of coffee. Louis, who is now watching Harry again, quirks one side of his mouth upwards and hands him the mug he just filled. Harry mouths a ‘thank you,’ his entire body singing with relief as he takes the first sip of sweet, sweet caffeine.

But then, Harry’s mood quickly dulls as images of last night come tumbling back. “How drunk was I?”

“Well, that depends on how much you remember. But you were pretty plastered, mate.”

Harry licks his lips. “Did I — I mean, did I . . . try anything?”

“With me?” Louis’ entire face is smiling. As though he’s enjoying this. “I mean, other than sitting on my lap and a few kisses on the cheek, no.”

His head is throbbing but he nods. Okay. So it wasn’t so bad. He was able to somehow, miraculously, keep himself in check last night. It’s a blessing. One of the true wonders of the world.

“But you did make out with Niall’s neck a bit.” Louis grins. “Apparently, according to him, you do it a lot when you’re drunk.”

Harry groans into his palms. “I swear I’m not a mess.”

“I never thought you were.”

“I just . . .” He waves vaguely into the air. “I keep embarrassing myself in front of you. It’s not fair.”

“Trust me, it’s fine. We all have off days.” Louis laughs, taking a long sip of his coffee before continuing. “Although, I think I have to give you the record for your sheer number of embarrassing moments yesterday. We should look into Guinness.”

Harry groans again.

“Aww, love. It was endearing. Promise.”

“I can’t even look at you.”

“But then that means _I_ can’t look at _you_.”

 _Great_ , Harry thinks. Louis is flirting with him. Just fucking great. 

“I spilled coffee on myself, and pantsed you, and kicked you, and got unbelievably drunk in front of you, and stole your bed, and put you out on the sofa. You don’t want to look at me right now.”

Louis’ laughter fills the room, and despite his head feeling like it’s stuck inside a fishbowl, Harry tries to memorize the sound. “Oh, but I do. You’re very cute when you’re blushing.”

For a moment, Harry feels like the Grinch. His shriveled heart grows three sizes. 

He peeks out from behind his hands to find Louis leaning against the wall in front of him, his coffee in one hand while the other is stuffed in the pocket of his joggers, head tilted back as he watches Harry with a small smile on his face. “Please don’t say stuff like that.”

Louis looks surprised. “What? That you’re cute?”

Harry nods.

“I just call it like I see it.” His smile grows, almost conspiratorial. “Plus, you didn’t seem to mind showering _me_ with compliments last night. I’m simply returning the favor.”

The throbbing in Harry’s skull grows tenfold. “God, I don’t even wanna know.”

“Okay. It’ll be my little secret.” Louis winks. He actually fucking winks. 

And of course Harry’s dick twitches in response. He clutches the sheets around him, suddenly very aware that he’s only wearing his boxers. Louis’ eyes flicker wickedly for a brief moment. He doesn’t say a word, but Harry knows he knows. 

All he wants in that moment is a quick, painless death.

“How did I end up here, anyway?” He asks, trying not to focus on Louis’ bare chest. Until this moment, he hadn’t realized how close they were, or how very little clothing stood between them.

“Ah,” Louis is still smiling and Harry wishes he would stop. His body isn’t on the same page as his brain, you see. And Louis looking at him, smiling at him, god, even being in the same room as him, isn’t helping matters. “We lost Niall and Zayn after a bit. You wanted some fresh air and I needed a smoke. When we went back inside I tried to find them but couldn’t. And since I don’t know where you live, bringing you here was the only option.”

Harry nods. The story checks out. He’s almost positive — no, screw that, he _is_ positive — that Niall left on purpose and took Zayn with him. Which, in all honesty, kind of stings. Harry had always believed that Niall would be there, no matter what, to take him home in case things got too out of hand. If he was uncomfortable, Niall was there. If he was upset, Niall was there. He had never left Harry alone before. Not with a stranger. Not until last night. 

Harry gulps down the hurt and anger bubbling on his tongue, instead opting to gulp his coffee down, emptying the mug completely before setting it down (a little too forcefully) on the table.

Louis must sense his change in mood, because he quickly goes on the defense. “I’m sure Niall didn’t mean to leave you behind. I think he was talking to some girl. He might’ve gotten distracted.”

Harry scoffs. “Doesn’t matter. He still left me.”

Maybe he should be kinder to Niall. Maybe his assumptions are incorrect, and Niall really didn’t mean to leave Harry behind. But based on all of his other actions yesterday, Harry knows that those excuses are bullshit. 

He groans, throwing himself back against the mattress.

“Niall seems like a really good mate to have.” Louis comments.

“He’s my best mate.” Harry rolls his eyes. “But he’s still a massive wanker.”

Louis nods, as though he too understands. “I love Zayn, but he does a lot of dumb shit. Always taking risks.”

“Hmm. So you’re the Niall to his Harry.” He muses. 

“Yeah.” Louis gets a faraway look in his eyes, his fingers clutching his coffee mug tighter than before. Harry pretends not to notice. “Something like that.”

+++

After the confusion of the morning and the awkward, skittish way that Harry looks for his clothes (which had somehow ended up stuffed in the hotel room’s fridge), when Louis asks Harry if he would like to go to breakfast with him, it seems like the icing on the cake to an already hellish day. 

Harry had just put his shirt on, shivering at the strange sensation of chilled fabric hugging his skin, when Louis decided to ask. He turned around to see Louis, fully changed, sitting on the mattress as he pulled his socks on. Harry caught a quick glimpse of a small triangle tattoo on his achilles before it disappeared. 

“Um,” He gulped. “I actually have to go. I have plans with my mum.”

He doesn’t have plans with his mum — at least, not until the afternoon — but Louis didn’t have to know that. He probably already knew it was a lie, if the way his lips puckered was any indication. But Harry couldn’t stand the thought of spending any more time with him. And not because he didn’t want to. Quite the opposite, actually. 

When Louis tried again, this time asking for his number, Harry relented. He recited it to Louis and watched his small, thin fingers type it into his Android. It shouldn’t have felt like such a huge moment, but it did, so Harry left the room quickly afterwards, the door slamming shut behind him, leaving a very confused Louis Tomlinson behind.

That’s how he finds himself standing outside Louis’ hotel in the middle of Manchester with his cell phone pressed up against his ear. He rests his forehead against the brick wall and closes his eyes, trying to focus on the sound of traffic and chattering people behind him. The city is already full of cars and pedestrians, all of whom are _not_ hungover and _not_ wearing yesterday’s clothes. A couple walking down the street eyes Harry with knowing looks. And Harry wants to scream. This is _not_ a walk of shame.

“Mmph.” Niall answers, and if Harry had any doubts about his friend leaving him behind intentionally last night, they’re gone now. 

“You motherfucker.”

“Harry—”

“You left me with a stranger! What the fuck, Niall?”

“I didn’t leave you. I couldn’t even find you guys.” 

“I was drunk out of my mind.”

Niall snorts. “Yeah, well, so was I. I wandered around for like an hour last night, pissed as shit. Couldn’t find anyone so I left.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Yeah,” Niall says. “I hardly remember getting home.”

“I hate you.” Harry groans, pressing his forehead harder against the brick. The night is starting to come back to him now. He remembers brushing his foot up against Louis’ at the restaurant (after the poor decision of drinking a fourth glass of wine, which apparently was enough to send him over the edge) and laughing at all of his jokes; he remembers sitting on Louis’ lap in the cab and running his fingers through his hair, commenting on its softness while his other hand gripped the back of Louis’ neck; he remembers pulling Niall aside as they stood around the bar, sipping on his second rum and coke and complaining about how pretty Louis looked.

He remembers describing Louis’ eyes to him . . . something about the sea on a summer day, the sun penetrating the water’s surface and bringing light into the dark, nothing but a steady, rippling blue for miles and miles and miles. He remembers telling Louis that he wanted to swim inside his eyes, all while his fingers traced the corners of his reddened lips.

The worst part is remembering how Louis looked at him afterwards, as though Harry had just hung the fucking stars in the sky for him.

“I can’t believe you let me hang all over him like that.” He shakes his head. 

Niall scoffs. “I actually do remember trying to pull you off him at some point.”

“Ugh. Is that when I started sucking on your neck?”

“Yup. You gave me a bruise, by the way. So thanks for that.”

Harry scoffs and rolls his eyes, though he knows Niall can’t see him. He won’t apologize for giving Niall a hickey, not when the alternative would have been giving one to Louis. Because he knows he would have. He’d been staring at that neck all night.

But he hadn’t been the only one staring. If anything, Louis was the one who started it. After he caught Harry admiring him at the restaurant, it was almost as if a dial had been switched, and the flirting had escalated from purely innocent to downright sinful. When Harry brushed his foot against Louis’ leg, Louis responded by licking his lips. When Harry sat in his lap and scratched at his scalp, Louis’ hand rubbed circles on Harry’s knee; when Harry commented on Louis’ eyes, Louis shot back with a full-length poem about the shape of Harry’s lips.

They had both wanted it. _Harry_ had wanted it so bad (he blames the cabernet), but somehow, nothing had happened. And Harry can’t quite recollect anything past what happened after pressing his lips to Louis’ cheek for the third time. He doesn’t know what he said or did between leaving the pub and going to bed last night. All he knows is that Louis had taken care of him. More importantly, Louis hadn’t taken advantage of him.

“I saw him go into Liam’s shop,” Harry says. “Louis. He went to Liam’s shop with Zayn yesterday. What if he’s got a painting of me, too?”

“That would be a good thing, right?”

Harry huffs. He had forgotten that Niall is not the right person to be talking about this with. “No, Niall! He asked for my number. What if he only wanted it because he thinks we’re meant to be or some shit.”

He can practically hear Niall roll his eyes. “Harry, you’re too stuck on this soulmate thing. If you don’t want to believe it, you don’t have to. But a very cute, very nice guy — who you really like, by the way — asked for your number. That’s all there is to it. And I hope to God you gave it to him, or you better believe I’ll do it for you.”

“Handsome.” Harry mumbles.

“What?”

“He’s not cute. He’s handsome. Beautiful. Pretty. Not cute.”

Niall erupts into a fit of laughter at that. “Yeah, see. You got it bad.”

“That doesn’t make it a good idea.”

“But you never know unless you try, right H?”

Right. He told Niall — and himself — that he would start trying.

“Right.”

“Okay. Do you need me to pick you up?”

“No.”

Silence on the other end. “Harry—” 

“No. I’m still mad at you.”

Harry hangs up, alone once again. He wanders up and down the street as he tries to hail a cab, the thoughts in his head pounding louder and louder with each step. Niall made it sound so easy, but the more Harry thinks about it, the more complicated it seems to become.

All he can think about now is how he saw Louis go into Liam’s shop, and what that might mean. He wonders what Liam said to Louis, if they talked about him at all. He wonders if Liam painted for him, and if Louis has a piece with Harry’s face on it sitting in his hotel room right now. Is that why Louis had been so nice and flirty towards him all night? Is it because he believes they are soulmates? Would Liam paint Harry for Louis just because he knew that he’d already painted Louis for Harry? Or would he refuse? 

He can’t fucking think straight. And he doesn’t want to be having these thoughts at all. It has taken him so long just to be okay with the thought of putting himself back out there (he’s still not there yet, in all honesty), and then came the soulmate thing, along with this stupid, beautiful, kind guy who he never thought he would get the chance to meet. And now that he has . . . he just doesn’t know, okay?

It doesn’t matter how brilliant Louis is, or how easy the conversation is, or how the world seems to disappear when he’s near him . . . 

This entire situation is Niall and Liam’s fault. Harry knows that much. But he starts to wonder if maybe Liam moving into town was the universe working to bring him and Louis together, and maybe things are starting to fall into place— 

No. Harry doesn’t want his entire life predetermined. He refuses to listen to fate, if that even is what’s at play here, which isn’t likely. And even if it were, he would like to have control over his _own_ thoughts and actions, thank you. The universe is not a machine and he is not a cog.

Harry is not going to fall for Louis Tomlinson. He’s not.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Louis get closer.

“So . . . who’s the new guy?

Harry looks up from his phone, wide-eyed. Across the table sits his sister, Gemma, and his mum, Anne, who are currently both staring at him. “What?”

“This was supposed to be a family lunch.” Gemma pouts. “You’ve been smiling at your phone for the past half-hour. Obviously there’s a new guy you’re texting. Who is he?”

They are outside on the patio of a cafe in Manchester, close to where Gemma’s office is located. It was a spur-of-the-moment lunch, because Gemma was working a half-day and had texted Harry that morning about how it had been too long since they had spoken. She hadn’t been wrong, either. It had been almost three weeks since all three of them had gotten together. In the Styles family, that may as well have been months.

So, he had decided to take a long lunch and pick up his mum from her house, driving the two of them out to Manchester to surprise Gemma. Have a nice family outing.

He had meant for it to be a family lunch — he really had — but it isn’t his fault that Louis won’t stop texting him. Ever since last weekend, it seems that Louis is hellbent on worming his way into Harry’s life. And Harry had tried really, _really_ hard to play it cool. The first time Louis had texted him ( _i_ _t was great meeting you !! x_ ), Harry had waited hours to respond, not wanting to seem too eager. But the more they started texting, the less he could keep up the charade. Their texts started getting longer, the times in-between them shorter and shorter. It just kind of happened. 

Louis has started sending Harry everything: good morning and goodnight texts, after-practice selfies, Spotify playlists filled with song recommendations, excruciating details about the shows he’s currently binging. And, okay, Harry doesn’t help matters. He responds to each text with his own updates, including artsy photos of all his meals, observations he makes while people-watching, an embarrassing number of emojis, a few of his favorite poems . . . 

But he never texts Louis first. And he never actively tries to flirt. That’s how he justifies his continued responses. All of their texts have been rather innocent so far anyways, and he intends to keep it that way. 

“No one.” He shoves the phone in his pocket.

Gemma stares him down. “Really? No one?”

“Yup.” He pops his lips and smiles, picking up his fork and playing with it.

“Hmm. So that’s why you haven’t been paying attention to your _lovely_ mum and sister and why you’re wearing that dopey smile?"

Anne’s eyes twinkle beside Gemma. “Harry, do you have a new beaux you’ve been keeping from us?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Aww, mum, he’s blushing.”

Anne frowns. “We had lunch last week and you said nothing."

“That’s because I don’t have a boyfriend.” He grits his teeth and runs a hand through his hair, barely refraining from pulling at the roots.

“Alright love. I believe you.” Anne smiles, taking a sip of ice water as she looks at Harry. She pauses. “Anyway, I received a rather large flower arrangement at my office yesterday. Red tulips and purple irises. Looked expensive. The card it came with thanked me for bringing awareness to a good cause. A donation of over a thousand pounds was made to the institute. And guess who it was from?”

Gemma gasps. “That wouldn’t happen to be from a Mr. Louis Tomlinson, would it?”

“Shut up, Gemma.” Harry cradles his face in his hands. 

“Actually, it was.” Anne raises a brow. “How did you know?”

Gemma eyes Harry. “Just a guess.”

He glares at her from across the table. “How do you even know about Louis?”

“You’ve been obsessed with him for years, Harry.” Gemma shrugs. “Plus, Niall may have mentioned something about you two hitting it off. Thanks for not sharing that with me, by the way.”

“Can you stop getting updates on my life from Niall? It’s weird.”

Gemma throws her hands up in exasperation. “Well if you would just update me yourself, I wouldn’t have to get it out of your best friend.”

“I text you with updates. Me making a new friend is not breaking news. I should know. I’m with the press.”

“Whatever. I would say that making friends with a freaking celebrity is big news, Harry. And if you’re ‘just friends,’ why did he send flowers to mum?”

“I don’t know. Niall may have mentioned the article I wrote about mum to him and he said he wanted to read it. He makes donations to charities all the time. It’s not a big deal.”

“Yes, but _flowers_ , Harry? To your mum?” God, his sister is persistent. 

Harry shrugs. “Is that not okay?”

“God, you’re thick.” Gemma turns to Anne. “It seems to me that Louis is practically courting Harry, but Harry is too ridiculous to do anything about it.”

“He’s not courting me.”

“Really? So he didn’t send flowers to mum and make a donation to her charity? And he hasn’t been texting you all week?”

“That’s friend stuff. You make it sound like he’s making some grand romantic gestures. We’re just friends.” 

Gemma snorts. 

“Okay, you two,” Anne interjects. “Let’s just enjoy lunch.”

The table is silent after they order their meals, the conversation about Harry’s nonexistent relationship with Louis having created a thick cloud of tension. Gemma won’t stop rolling her eyes every time Harry’s phone vibrates, and Harry’s fingers have resorted to tapping relentlessly at the table and tugging at his shirt sleeves. He’s itching to check his phone and reply to Louis’ texts, but he also can’t give Gemma the satisfaction.

Anne tries to revive the conversation once they receive their food, asking about Gemma’s and Harry’s work. _Gemma, how is your new website design coming?_ Fine. _Harry, what are you writing about this week?_ A play. _Do either of you remember your primary school teacher, Mr. Wilson?_ No. _Well, he was arrested for public indecency. Got fired from the school, thankfully. Harry, you should write an article on him._ Maybe.

She’s trying, and Harry loves her for it, but every time he looks up and sees the annoyed glint in Gemma’s eyes his mouth goes numb and he can’t give more than one word answers. Besides, he’s done nothing wrong here. He won’t be the first to break. His sister loves to poke and pry into his personal life — and for the most part, it never used to bother Harry. But she also knows how fragile the subject is, and how difficult of a time he has had these past few years. A little bit of tact would be appreciated. 

They spend their lunch engaging in polite conversation but the silence is mostly filled with the scrape of cutlery on plates. Harry finishes his eggplant panini, despite a growing stomach ache, and he is close to believing — hoping, even — that the subject of Louis has been dropped. But he’s never been that lucky. 

Surprisingly, it’s Anne who brings it back up.

“So, Harry,” she says, chin resting atop her interlocked fingers. “Do you like this Louis?”

A film of bile starts to form in the back of his throat and he’s afraid the panini might be coming back up. “Mum—”

Anne reaches across the table, her hand settling on top of his and squeezing tight. Gemma uncrosses her arms and follows suit, her eyes still blazing but slightly softened.

“We just want you to be happy, Harry. And safe.” She hesitates. “It’s been . . . a while since you’ve liked anyone, and last time didn’t have the best results. I just worry.”

“Mum, it’s not like that. I—” The words get caught in his throat. “Nothing’s going to happen. I can’t risk it.”

“But you like him, yeah?” 

“I barely know him.”

“But you still like him.” Anne smiles. “Darling, there’s no reason for you to hold yourself back from something that might make you happy. And if things get bad, you have me and Gemma.”

“And Niall. He’s like your rock these days.” Gemma jokes, but her hand squeezes his.

She isn’t wrong, yet the words still hit him like a slap to the face. He really does lean far too much on Niall. He’s tried to take a step back in the past, give his friend some room to breathe, but Harry is clingy. And Niall is his one solid, unyielding relationship outside of his mum and sister. They’ve been friends since they were kids in primary school, had even gone to the same uni, spending almost every day together since the age of seven. It’s hard for Harry to distance himself, no matter how much he needs to.

Niall has been through it all with him. There are things he knows that not even his mum or sister know.

Anne shushes Gemma before turning back to Harry. “I would love to meet Louis. When you’re ready, of course.”

Harry shakes his head. “Louis is just a friend.”

Anne smiles softly. “I would love to meet him anyway. When’s the match, again?”

“December 3rd.”

“Then it’s a date.”

Harry sighs. There’s no point in arguing it. His mum and sister are not only persistent, but incredibly stubborn. Once they set their minds to something, it’s impossible to reason with them. A trait that has more or less been passed onto Harry, as well. 

The Styles family is a difficult bunch.

“Okay,” he says. “But you can’t be embarrassing.”

Gemma gasps and clutches at her heart with an affronted look. “Us? Embarrassing?”

He rolls his eyes. “Just promise me?”

“Fine. Promise.”

“Promise.” His mum smiles at him, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Harry can tell what she’s thinking, and he forces his gaze away. She has every right to worry about him, but it doesn’t mean she has to look at him like that. Like he’s a piece of broken glass waiting to break skin.

Harry goes back to work feeling much heavier than before. He ignores Louis’ texts for the rest of the day (maybe to punish himself, who knows), instead opting to turn off his phone. But he can still remember the feel of it vibrating against his leg, begging him to answer.

+++

Louis is a menace on the field. And Harry means that in the nicest possible way. If he thought watching him play on television was impressive, it’s got nothing on watching him play in person. 

Harry sits on one of the benches beside the pitch, sweating in a long-sleeved tee as the full sun hangs overhead. It’s the first Wednesday that the Doncaster Rovers are in Holmes Chapel to practice with the Hurricanes, and the news has spread far more quickly than anyone had anticipated. There’s a throng of fans mixed with innocent onlookers standing around the field, crowded near the benches and pressed up against the fencing, everyone trying to catch a glimpse of the team in action. 

The Rovers may not be premier league, but they have risen significantly in the ranks the past few years, and sports commentators and critics say that the team is this year’s favorite to win the 2020 Championship League. Everyone knows why. The reason is currently out on the field, feinting and weaving and stealing like it’s nothing to him. And it is not just his skill, but the sheer strength he brings to the team with his stellar teamwork and the camaraderie he builds with each individual member. It’s in every pat on the shoulder and slap on the ass, every shared smile and yell of encouragement. Louis Tomlinson is the backbone of this team. He makes them stronger.

Nobody had seen it coming. Louis had come straight from uni with a degree in Athletic Training and no professional football experience, only a year of captaining his uni’s football club and a few years of playing in primary school under his belt. He had been a striker back then but got drafted as a midfielder, which essentially had forced him to learn an entirely new position and put him at an even further disadvantage. He was shorter than the average player and not as built. News outlets had predicted he would drop out within a year, and said that adding him to the team would hurt their chances of ever making premier. 

Obviously, they had been wrong. At their very first game against Portsmouth (one of the strongest League One teams), Louis had single-handedly helped beat back the other team’s defense, which allowed the Rovers to win with a score of 4-2. The media quickly changed their opinions after that.

He’s only gotten better through the years. Harry watches Louis run across the field with a fire and passion that he’s never seen before. He moves like a panther, eyeing his prey with keen interest, light on his feet and absolutely lethal to be around. He pounces when the Hurricanes least expect it, always coming from outside their line of sight, moving in a blur of red and white. By the time they regain their senses, the ball has passed from his possession to another teammate and they book it down the pitch like a well-oiled machine.

Harry recalls his own firsthand experience of Louis’ speed on the pitch and his feeling of whiplash that followed. He doesn’t know how these men can handle being in a game with Louis for so long without losing all sense of direction. Harry’s vertigo had gotten so bad that his limbs had flailed, grabbing onto the nearest object in a desperate attempt to steady himself.

His cheeks go pink at the memory of Louis’ joggers falling around his ankles and the look of panic on his face as they both tumbled to the ground. He remembers counting his ragged breaths in the seconds that followed, time stretching on in agonizing increments, before he could feel Louis’ body vibrating with laughter beside him. So loud and boisterous and free. Harry hadn’t been able to help but join in, their hysterical laughter ringing in the air.

A hand claps on Harry’s shoulder, bringing him back into the present, and Niall plops down on the bench beside him, smiling bright. “The Rovers are fucking incredible. Look at Williams go!”

Harry focuses his eyes, trying to find Williams among the jerseys, but his eyes are stuck on Louis. “Yeah, he’s doing great.”

Niall snorts and pulls Harry’s chin towards the other end of the pitch. “Yeah, and you’d know that if you weren’t staring Tomlinson down like you want to devour him.”

“I am not looking at him that way. He’s objectively the best player out there. So sue me for admiring his technique.”

“And his bum?”

Harry wrinkles his nose. “Stop objectifying him.”

“Oi! I’m not the one looking.”

“No, you’re the one using your male gaze. It’s 2020, Niall. Get with the program.”

Niall throws his hands up in surrender. “Whatever you say, H.”

He watches as Louis passes to Fernsby, one of the strikers, and Fernsby bends the ball, sending it in a curved trajectory towards the goal. The Hurricanes’ defender is too slow and dives off to the right as the ball flies towards the left, hitting the net with so much force it almost bounces back out.

The practice match is over after that and the entire team is patting each other on the back, discussing the moves they made along with the tricks that worked and the ones that didn’t. They walk over to the Hurricanes and each player shakes hands, Louis leading up the line. His smile is blinding.

Harry turns to Niall. “When are the teens supposed to be here?”

He checks his watch. “Classes just got out, so hopefully soon.”

“So, is it just like a meet and greet, then? They meet the team, get a picture, and then leave?”

“Nah. I mean, there’s going to be some photos. But Louis wanted to stay afterwards and talk to them.”

Harry nods, his eyes straying back to the pitch, where Louis has just finished shaking hands with the last Hurricanes player. Of course Louis would want to meet the teens personally and speak with them. Not only is he the star of the match, here to draw in viewers and donations, but he’s also the only player who is fully out. He’s the only one who might understand what those kids are going through and be able to offer some sage advice.

God knows Harry couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t know what to say.

When the teens arrive a half hour later, they walk onto the pitch together in a protective huddle, almost as though they are accustomed to it. There are only twenty of them, split between three different schools, but seeing them nearly brings tears to Harry’s eyes. When he had been in school, there hadn’t been a single LGBT+ club for him to join, and he had only known two other queer kids. Neither of them had been out. Nowadays, almost every primary school has one, and more and more kids are coming out every day. It gives him a surge of hope for these teens, knowing that they have built such a tight knit, welcoming community with one another.

Louis spots the group straight away and smiles, his eyes glinting with an emotion that looks a lot like pride. The rest of the players shuffle together and wave towards the teens, though most of them fidget awkwardly in their spots. There’s a distance between them that neither group knows how to fill. 

Niall, bless him, jumps between the two groups, introducing the players to the teens, expressing his dedication to the cause, and explaining how the proceeds will be used. When the teens learn about the plans for a renovated LGBT+ youth center, their eyes light up and they whisper excitedly to one another. Louis’ eyes are bright as he watches them.

There’s a photo-op, of course, which is awkward and stiff. Niall cuts it short and, instead of sending them away, suggests that the players dribble the ball around with the teens as a way to loosen up before they all try again. Sometimes, Harry forgets how good Niall is at his job. He’s a real people-person, always checking in and making sure everyone is not only comfortable, but thoroughly enjoying themselves. 

At the suggestion, the entire group of teens runs towards Louis, desperate to get close to him. Harry can see the awe and adoration in their eyes as they stare at him. He’s a rockstar to them. A hero. An idol. Someone to both look up to and aspire to be . . . which, Harry can relate all too well to those feelings.

Louis watches them approach with a gentle smile, and instead of stepping up onto a bench or hovering over them all, he decides to sit down in the grass, juggling a football lightly between his hands. They follow his movements almost immediately, the entire group rushing to mirror his cross-legged position, eyes rapt with attention. Surprisingly, the rest of the footballers follow his lead as well, sitting down heavily in the grass and benches with their water bottles and protein bars, spread out enough so as to not crowd Louis or the teens, but also close enough so that they can hear. 

“I’ve just played footy for almost two hours and I’m a bit knackered, so how about we have a chat instead, yeah?” Louis looks up to Niall for permission and he merely shrugs. It doesn’t matter to Niall, or anyone else for that matter. They all know that Louis is the heart and soul of this entire operation. Whatever he wants to say or do with these teens is up to him.

Louis nods and looks back towards the group. “Right then, let’s get on with it. Ask me any questions you have. Don’t be shy.”

Every single hand shoots up into the air, and even Louis’ can’t help but raise his eyebrows in surprise. He quickly masks it with a smile and points to one of the younger girls. “You. What’s your name?”

She smiles shyly. “Caroline.”

“Well, Caroline, you’ve got my undivided attention. What’s your question, love?”

She twiddles her thumbs in her lap, but her eyes are clear and focused. “When did you first know you were gay?”

“Oi, you lot are getting straight to the point, aren’t you?”

The group giggles, including a few of the players. Harry is amazed at how easily Louis seems to be able to release the tension in everyone’s shoulders with a simple joke. 

“Kidding, kidding. I think I had always known. But I _knew,_ knew at thirteen.”

Another teen pipes up. “When did you come out?”

“To my family, around fourteen. I waited until I was sixteen to come out to a few close friends. I didn’t fully come out until I entered uni, though. And then I had to come out again when I went pro.”

Harry swallows. He had just realized he was gay at fourteen while Louis was coming out to his friends at sixteen; told his family when he was fifteen while Louis was probably about to enter uni as a young, fully out man. Their timeline of self-discovery and acceptance synced up in an eerie way, only missing each other by a few years.

“Were you scared?” One of the younger ones asks, their eyes wide.

Louis smiles.

“Of course I was scared,” he says. “You’re all lucky. I didn’t have the support that you have all found in each other. I was one out of two gay boys in my entire school, that I knew of. I didn’t have that sense of community or belonging. And I’m so happy that things have changed, because now I can sit here and meet all of you wonderful, strong, proud teenagers, and feel like things can only go up from here. And if you look up to me, I want you to know that _I_ look up to all of you.”

The questions are rapid fire after that. And Louis answers each one easily, without hesitation. His eyes are intense and direct, much like his responses. Harry learns about how he realized he was gay ( _Watching Adam Levine perform onstage was a huge awakening for me)_ ; whether he believes in the gaydar or not ( _Hmm, sometimes_ ); who his first celebrity crush was ( _J_ _ohn Travolta_ ); and when and where he had his first kiss ( _My first_ real _kiss was at sixteen behind the bleachers on the footy pitch. Very romantic_ ). 

It’s information overload, and Harry is accumulating each snippet like a rare collectible. He clutches them close to his chest and tucks them in his pocket for safekeeping. Every piece he gets is like he’s piecing together who Louis is as a person, and Harry realizes that maybe this is the first time he’s begun to view Louis as a tangible, real human being instead of Louis Tomlinson ™.

“Did you feel safe, telling your friends and family?”

Harry can feel the tension grow at that question. It’s one of the big ones. He can tell by the expressions on the kids’ faces that they have all had the same question at some point. Harry had, too. And he knows by the way Louis’ jaw clenches that he has struggled with the same thing. It’s one of those biologically-driven questions formed out of self-preservation; it’s at the core of each individual’s basic needs. To be safe and secure. 

“I . . . was very fortunate to have an accepting family. It took my friends a bit to come around to the idea. Some of them left, some of them stayed.” He looks up at the sky. “There have been times when I knew it wasn’t safe, so I didn’t come out to certain people. And once I became famous, I had to make a choice: come out to the whole world or hide myself away again. I couldn’t bear the thought of going back into the closet, so I chose the former. It’s never been easy, and I’ve been in a lot of unsafe situations because of it, but I think the timing of my coming out is what mattered.”

When he says these next words, he makes sure to look at each individual kid in the eyes, baring his entire soul out for them to see. “Never feel rushed to come out if you’re not ready or if you don’t feel safe. Your safety comes first, and timing is everything. How and when you come out is up to you. Nobody can take that away.”

+++

The teens leave soon after that, along with the footballers and Niall, until it is only Louis and Harry remaining. He hadn’t meant to hang behind, but Louis had started to act rather subdued after the last question, his interactions with the group becoming less and less enthusiastic as the minutes wore on. And Harry was becoming worried.

That’s why, when everyone else was leaving, and it was only Louis left sitting in the middle of the empty pitch, Harry decided to stay back. It didn’t feel right to leave Louis alone, so he didn’t. 

“I wish I’d had someone to say that stuff to me when I was their age.”

Louis jumps slightly at Harry’s voice and looks up from his spot on the ground, his face drawn tight. “Yeah. Me too.”

“You did amazing. They responded well to you.”

Louis nods, but his stare is fixed on his hands. “It’s a lot of pressure, though, innit? Being one of the few openly gay athletes in the UK, I mean. They all looked at me like . . . I don’t know. Like I was the answer to all their problems. It’s not something I think I’ll ever get used to.”

“I don’t know how you do it, to be honest.” Harry crouches down beside Louis, watching as he fiddles with his thumbs.

Louis shrugs, but his shoulders are full of tension. “I had to work so hard to get here. And I still have to try three times as hard on the pitch to gain the same respect as other players. I can’t afford bad press because I know that those kids are out here and they’re all watching me. It’s exhausting, honestly.”

Harry nods, not quite knowing what to say, but somehow understanding that maybe words aren’t necessary here. Maybe Louis just needs to get it all off his chest. Maybe he just needs someone to listen to him. Harry can be that person. He can do that.

“I mean, I love being that role model and a source of support, don’t get me wrong. I just get scared sometimes that it won’t be enough.”

“I think . . .” Harry begins, tentatively. Louis turns to look at him, his eyes desperate, so Harry takes it as a green light to continue. “I think that being yourself, being honest, is enough. That’s all you can do, really.”

Louis swallows and stands up suddenly, shaking his arms and legs as though trying to expel the negative thoughts. “I need to move. Can we go for a walk?”

He can tell that Louis is getting emotional, and he doesn’t want to be nosy, but his brain is buzzing with a flurry of questions. He wants to know why he seems so affected right now, because he knows that there’s something he isn’t saying, something hidden deep beneath layers of skin and bone. He wants to sit and listen as Louis spills out every secret, every thought, every memory he’s ever had. The good, the bad, the ugly. He wants to pick his brain apart and memorize him from the inside out.

As friends, of course.

But instead of prying, Harry nods. “I can take you somewhere.”

+++

Song: [ 7 by Catfish and the Bottlemen ](https://youtu.be/Ibv5N70ncsk)

Dane Meadow isn’t much at first glance, but Harry has always loved it here. He stumbled upon it by accident one day while walking around town, lost in his thoughts. After the first time came a second time, and then a third and fourth, until Harry had practically adopted it as his own personal sanctuary. In the immediate aftermath of his breakup with Noah, there were days where Harry would simply drive out here and walk along the riverside and watch as the setting sun illuminated the abandoned, red-bricked railway in the distance. Sometimes he would lie in the meadow and feel the warmth of the day kissing his cheeks. He would stay there for hours, alone, with nothing but his own company and steady heartbeat. The meadow has a way of clearing all thoughts from his head, wiping the mess clean for a while, before he’s forced to return to reality. 

It hadn’t occurred to him that his bringing Louis here could be misconstrued as intimate. Harry didn’t know why he had decided to bring Louis here, but it was too late to go back or change his mind. Louis had been upset and Harry had wanted to fix it — so naturally, Harry had thought to bring him to his favorite place. Because, though it doesn’t look like much at first glance, the meadow is a beautiful place, especially during autumn. The red and gold leaves dance in the air and litter the ground, creating a patchwork of warm colors, sometimes ending up in the river to create the illusion of tiny, colorful lily pads. The sunsets cast an orangish glow against the abandoned railway and reflect off the leaves to make the meadow look like it is on fire. The landscape turns idyllic, almost dreamlike. Perfect for clearing one’s mind. But also perfect for dates.

So, yeah. He hadn’t really thought any of it through.

The car ride is mostly silent, save the slight breeze drifting in through the open window. Harry doesn’t say a word, and neither does Louis. The mood seems fragile, breakable. Almost like they are both afraid to stir the air in fear of shattering it. There are silent tears slipping down Louis’ cheeks, but he doesn’t bother wiping them away. When the car pulls into the parking lot, before the engine even cuts off, Louis is opening the passenger door and running out towards the riverbank. 

By the time Harry recovers his senses, Louis has stopped near the river, throwing himself onto the ground and hugging his knees close to his chest, his shoulders curled inwards.

Harry locks the car and walks up to Louis cautiously, as one might approach a wounded animal. He doesn’t know what’s wrong or what to say or how to fix whatever is hurting Louis, but he sits down beside him, leaving a few inches between their bodies. He can be a physical anchor for Louis, if that’s what he needs. They could sit here for hours in silence and Harry wouldn’t mind. That’s what he does best.

The wind rustles the leaves on the ground, a particularly large gust sweeping in and creating a swirling tornado of yellow and red and brown, before it settles once more. It’s nearing the late afternoon, maybe around half past five o’clock, which means the sun will be setting soon. Harry can admit that he really wants Louis to see it. He wants him to see how special this place is. Maybe that’s why he brought him here without thinking about it. After all, Louis had given so many pieces of himself away today; maybe Harry wanted to return the favor. 

“I’m sorry for being dramatic.” Louis’ voice croaks, breaking the fragile silence that had begun to develop around them.

Harry watches his eyes shimmer as fresh tears slide down his cheeks. “I don’t think you’re being dramatic.”

Louis hiccups a laugh. “I don’t even know why I’m crying.”

“I don’t think any of us know why we feel the way we feel.” Harry turns his head back towards the water, watching as a frog hops from rock to rock. “There’s no rationale behind emotions. That’s why sometimes it’s best to let yourself give into them, because afterwards, you gain more clarity.”

“Hmm.” Louis sniffles. “Sound logic.”

“That’s my roundabout way of saying that sometimes all you need is a good cry.”

Louis laughs fully at that, the sound echoing throughout the meadow and causing a flock of redwings to fly away. Harry watches them until they find another tree, perching atop the branches and fluffing their wings. He’s never been big on birdwatching, but it’s become a common pastime for him whenever he comes here. Something about birds fascinates him. Perhaps it’s the songs. Or the freedom. Or both.

“Do you wanna know why I brought you here?”

Louis turns to face him and nods, his eyelashes dark and heavy. And Harry’s struck, not by his beauty, but by the sheer level of openness he can see on his face. He looks at Harry with no shame, nothing to hide. He’s completely honest, without even needing to speak, sharing this vulnerable part of himself with Harry as easily as he would share his gougére. 

He inhales deep, steadying his nerves.

“About two years ago, I got my heart broken. Badly. Like, think bad, and then quadruple it. I cannot emphasize how bad it was.” That earns a small, breathy laugh from Louis, which encourages Harry to continue. “So, my boyfriend had just dumped me and I was devastated. He was the first real love of my life — or, at least, I thought he was at the time. Turns out, he was just a manipulative dickhead and I was too much of a romantic to see the warning signs. I gave him everything I had. I tried everything I could to make him happy. But nothing worked. And when it was over, I felt like my heart was empty, like he had sucked me dry of all the good I’d had inside. I didn’t believe I had anything more to offer and all I could think about was how much I missed him. Except when I found this place. Every time I came here, I don’t know, all of my thoughts disappeared. It’s a good place to not think.”

He's surprised by how much he has just revealed about himself. Nobody knows about this place, or the reasons why he finds comfort here. And nobody knows how bad things had really been between him and Noah, except for Niall. But sharing a little bit about it with Louis feels right somehow, like they can both coexist in this space and spill their secrets into the soil, soaking it with all of their otherwise unspoken truths. With anyone else, he might be fidgeting right now, twisting the rings on his fingers or tearing at the leaves beneath him, but Louis’ presence stabilizes him. Comforts him. And he hopes his own presence has the same effect for Louis. 

“I’m sorry,” Louis says. “You know, about your ex. That he turned out to be a dickhead.”

Harry laughs. “He’s the dickheadiest of them all.”

“I’ve had my fair share of those.”

He hums in agreement. “Sometimes I feel like I used to settle just because I was lonely and wanted someone around, even if they sucked.”

“But not anymore?”

“Not anymore.”

“Good. Me neither.”

“Good.”

Harry reaches over to squeeze Louis’ shoulder and the two settle into comfortable silence for a while after that, with only the occasional sniffle from Louis. Harry wishes he could take the hurt away and hide it out of view, or somehow make things better, if only a little bit. Maybe he had hoped that _his_ special place might make an impact . . . but thinking about it now, it all seems very foolish.

And he is about to suggest they leave — having accepted his own defeat — when Louis suddenly perks up, wiping at his eyes before pointing towards the west. “Oh, look!”

Harry whips his head in the direction Louis is pointing and almost sighs in relief. The sun has lowered significantly since they arrived, and it’s now at the point in the day where the sky burns a bright, reddish orange, its golden glow spreading across the meadow, setting ablaze the clouds and trees and leaves and even the water, the dying light of day trickling into every nook and cranny it can find. There’s something magical about the way the sun can hang its skin over the earth and dye everything monochromatic. And Harry is in awe every time it happens.

He wants to explain it all to Louis, how beautiful the deep orange hues are, how alive this place becomes during the hour before dusk takes hold, but the words fall flat. It’s one of those inexplicable feelings, he supposes. This place operates on tactile and visual stimuli, not on words. Harry could recite poetry about the songs the birds sing as the sun sinks below the horizon, or how the burning river babbles and breathes in sync with the howling wind . . . but it wouldn’t translate the same. 

But it appears Louis is just as speechless, because his mouth is hanging open, absorbing the scenery like he’s starving for it, as though he’s never seen anything so breathtaking in his entire life. Which Harry knows isn’t true — he’s probably traveled to much more beautiful places than this — but the notion fills his chest with an indescribable amount of joy.

“Let’s take a walk.” He whispers, not wanting to break the spell, but also desperate for Louis to take it all in. Louis glances at him, mouth still parted slightly, and it’s difficult for Harry not to stare. The golden glow has soaked into Louis’ tanned skin, casting him in a brighter light and bringing out the freckles on his cheeks and the speckles of green in his eyes. The lines of his face are accentuated, bringing out the sharpness of his cheekbones and the point of his jaw. If he were a god, he’d be Apollo. God of the sun. God of light.

He stands before he can dwell too much on the thoughts, and Louis rises with him, still staring in awe at their surroundings. They begin strolling upstream, closer to the sun, watching as the shadows shimmer and grow and stretch, dousing the fire in agonizingly slow motions. Golden hour has always been Harry’s favorite part of the day, and experiencing it in his favorite place during his favorite season with . . . a really good person. Well. Nothing gets better than that.

“I can see why you love this place.” Louis breathes. 

Harry nods, not quite knowing how to explain that ‘love’ doesn’t even begin to describe this place for him. But it’s a good starting point. He points out some of his favorite places as they walk: the little stone bridge that a family of ducks returns to every spring; a patch of grass now covered with leaves but, come spring and summer, will be filled with wildflowers; the abandoned railway across the field, where he once explored and found dozens of sketched hearts filled with the initials of people who had fallen in love; the tree he often sits beneath if the day’s heat becomes too much. He can’t help but want to share every piece of this place with Louis, which is kind of like sharing pieces of himself. And Louis listens intently. As though he cares.

Harry is just explaining the day he’d fallen into the river in the dead of winter, when suddenly he spots a herd of cows standing in the river a little ways away and grabs at Louis’ arm without thinking, shocking the other man out of his trance. “Cows!”

“What?”

But Harry has already started running along the water’s edge, laughing as the cold wind bites his cheeks. He can hear Louis’ soft feet jogging behind him, probably still confused and a little hesitant, but still willingly and blindly following Harry towards the herd. The realization has his heart racing and he can’t stop his smile from spreading. 

He stops about thirty yards away from the cows, not wanting to scare them off. He’s hiding behind a thornbush, watching as they lap up the water, unbothered and unimpressed by their surroundings. There’s two calves hanging around in the middle of the group, partly obscured from view, but Harry can hear them keening for their mothers. He sighs, partly in awe and partly because the scene is so pure, so natural. 

Harry loves cows. Has nothing but fond memories of visiting his uncle’s farm when he was younger, of going horseback riding and cleaning the stables, tending to the chicken’s coop and collecting fresh eggs — but his favorite place had always been the open field where the cows went to graze, nudging at his palms when he brought handfuls of hay out to them as a special treat. He hasn’t been to the farm in years, but every time he sees a cow, those pleasant memories come flooding back.

Louis is standing beside him, and Harry can’t see his face, but he can hear that his ragged breathing has calmed to a steadier tempo. He turns to point the calves out to Louis and quickly realizes that Louis isn’t even looking at the herd, but at Harry instead. Their noses are so close that if either were to move forward a millimeter, they would be touching. Harry tries to keep his breath intact, inhaling softly through his nose and catching the slight scent of vanilla and cigarettes and sweat on Louis’ skin. 

It’s intoxicating. And dangerous.

“Can I ask you something?” He whispers.

“Of course.”

“You donated to my mum’s charity.”

“That’s not a question.” Louis teases. “But I did. It’s a good cause.”

“You sent her flowers.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“I read your article.” He responds. “And I wanted to do something nice for her.”

I wanted to do something nice for _you_ , Harry hears.

Louis’ eyes flicker down to his mouth and that’s enough to snap Harry out of it. He clears his throat and backs away, the warmth of Louis’ skin and his scent disappearing in a flash, soon replaced by the increasing chill in the air. Harry looks up and sees that one of the calves has walked closer towards them, its beady eyes meeting his with curiosity. 

“Moo.” Harry mutters, and the calf jerks away in surprise, blinking twice before retreating back into the herd, tail twitching nervously between its legs.

Louis cracks up beside him, startling the rest of the cows and practically causing a stampede as they all rush downstream, the water splashing beneath their hooves, a collective, panicked ‘Moo’ echoing throughout the meadow. Harry watches as the calves stumble over rocks and fall face first in the water, and soon enough, he’s tumbling into the same breathless laughter as Louis, the tension in the air finally broken. 

+++

_Thank you for sharing your place with me x_

_I needed that_

_Also, niall talked about potentially doing a profile on me before the match_

_You know, for publicity_

_So if you want to interview me sometime i don’t mind at all x_

When Harry receives Louis’ texts before going to bed that night, his wind bitten face is already hurting from smiling so much. He responds with his own flurry of texts, biting his lip to hold back another grin. 

_I was happy to share, and I’m glad you liked it x_

_I would be honored to interview you_

_Just let me know when and where_

_I’ll be there_

+++

Harry stares at the half-written document on his screen with growing frustration. His article for the local secondary school’s performance of Hamlet is due tomorrow, but he can’t quite seem to finish it. He has been struggling to find the perfect way to end it without sounding bored or pretentious — because really, it wasn’t a good production. Which, what more did Harry expect from a bunch of inexperienced teens attempting to perform Shakespeare? 

Still, they are kids. He can’t be too harsh on them. 

It doesn’t help that his mind keeps straying to other things, like, for example, a certain footballer who he is meant to be interviewing a few days from now. Harry has tried — honest to god, tried his hardest — to put all thoughts of Louis Tomlinson out of his head since that day in the meadow, but the more he pushes the thoughts away, the more relentless they become. 

And it’s making it impossible to do his job. 

Sighing, Harry opens up a new, blank document and starts to create a list, just to put his turbulent thoughts into a cleaner, less tangled format. 

**Reasons Why Louis Tomlinson is Beautiful**

  1. His light blue eyes
  2. His freckles (which only come out in direct sunlight)
  3. His infectious laugh
  4. Eyelashes eyelashes eyelash-



He’s in the midst of writing the fourth reason when a throat clears from behind him, causing Harry’s body to jerk violently. He quickly minimizes all of his documents and turns himself around in his chair, coming face-to-face with his boss, Irving, who’s eyeing him with a knowing look. 

“Styles, how is your article on Hamlet coming?” He asks.

“Good. Fine. Just fine, sir.” Harry recovers quickly, blinking innocently up at Irving.

His boss only smirks. “Wonderful. I’d like the draft in my inbox before you leave today.”

“Of course, sir.”

His boss nods once before turning to walk away, and Harry’s shoulders slump as he releases a long breath. Irving pauses a few steps away and turns back towards Harry, who sits up straighter. “Writing an article on Louis Tomlinson was a good idea, by the way. Though I’d recommend coming up with more content rather than making a list of his physical attributes.”

Harry’s eyes widen. “Oh, that wasn’t—”

“A detailed list about reasons to find him beautiful?” Irving raises his eyebrows. “I won’t deny that the young man is rather handsome, but let’s stick to interviewing him, yeah?”

“Y-yes, sir.” 

Irving walks away with a shake of his head, but Harry doesn’t move until he’s out of sight, the sound of his cheerful whistling drowned out by the phones and printers once more.

He turns back in his chair to stare at his computer screen, the sense of dread and doom growing stronger than before. Sighing, Harry goes to pull up his minimized documents, and automatically freezes. There’s only one document open, and it’s his Louis one. The article on Hamlet is nowhere to be seen. 

Harry groans and slams his forehead against his keyboard, ignoring the sharp gasp of his desk partner, Michelle, at his sudden outburst. 

Instead of minimizing the Hamlet article, he had deleted it. Without saving his progress.

And now he has to start it all over from scratch.

Fuck.

He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. Up until now, he has never allowed personal issues to impact his productivity at work, aside from a few exceptions like family emergencies. But losing track of his thoughts and getting distracted by a guy? It has never happened before. Not even after his and Noah’s breakup. Harry had still come to work, compartmentalizing his heartbreak for those eight hours, until he went home. Had still completed his articles on time and written stellar pieces.

Louis has him jumbled up in all sorts of ways that he’s not accustomed to. And he doesn’t like it. His mind and body seem to be perpetually out of sync and it’s becoming impossible to pull apart the knotted mess. Whenever he receives a text from Louis, his heart flutters; whenever he thinks about Louis, his stomach flips; whenever he looks at Louis, his mouth goes dry. 

It's ridiculous that Harry is acting like a schoolboy with a crush. He keeps trying to find ways to counteract the effects that Louis has on him, but nothing works; he has tried ignoring Louis’ texts and finding flaws about him, no matter how small, but he can’t seem to control his own impulses or thoughts. Everything about this situation is out of control, which has alarm bells going off in Harry’s head. Being Louis’ friend is turning out to be more difficult than he thought it would be.

In a fit of frustration, he adds a new section to his Louis document:

**Reasons Why Louis Tomlinson is Annoying**

  1. I. Can’t. Think.



And that’s it, really. It’s all he can come up with. 

Damn. He really is screwed, isn’t he?


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry gets scared.

It’s a Tuesday afternoon at Costa Coffee, which means the shop is not too crowded, and Harry is in a pleasant mood. Anytime after four o’clock on a weekday is Harry’s favorite time to come here and sit alone with a coffee in one hand, reading one of his favorite Atwood or Morrison novels. Sometimes he’ll bring a crossword puzzle or listen to music, doodling aimlessly in his journal. And he usually finds a seat near the window or on the outdoor patio so he can watch people walk down the street, talking on their phones or carrying groceries. Living their normal, everyday lives. It’s a favorite pastime of his, observing the world spin on around him as he sits comfortably in his own small corner, sipping at his coffee like he has an endless amount of time at his disposal.

But today is different, because today, he isn’t alone. 

Louis is across from him, giggling about a joke Harry told him. He had invited Louis here for their interview, and it went about as well as he could have expected. Harry asked his questions and Louis supplied some good answers, but they had both been rather distracted. Harry’s heart had been jackhammering inside his chest while Louis made eyes at him, ‘accidentally’ finding ways to touch Harry’s hands or bump his foot against Harry’s ankles. At one point, Louis’ foot bumped against his calf and they both froze for a moment. And then Louis smiled shyly at Harry, who started stuttering like an idiot over his next question, which only made Louis laugh, which, in return, caused Harry to blush deeply. So it went. 

(The entire ordeal plays out almost exactly like Harry fantasized it would, except, of course, for the lack of a brick wall to make out against.)

And now that the interview is over, and Louis is still here, the flirting has simmered into an actual conversation. He seems comfortable, with one of his arms draped around the back of his chair and his legs spread wide, in no rush to leave. And Harry isn’t above admitting that he looks good like this, sitting in Harry’s favorite coffee shop in Harry’s hometown, wearing a purple tracksuit and looking regal as hell. It feels right.

“So, you’ve got a look into my brain. I’d love to pick at yours a bit.” Louis takes a long sip of his tea (two milks, no sugar). “Tell me more about yourself, Harry Styles.”

“Yeah? What d’you wanna know?”

“Everything.”

Harry smirks. “Hmm. Read an encyclopedia.”

A surprised laugh escapes Louis' mouth and he covers it with his hand, nodding. “Okay, more specific. How about you tell me about Holmes Chapel. You grew up here?”

“Yeah. Mum moved us out here when I was a baby. It’s the only place I’ve ever lived.”

“And you’ve never thought about leaving?”

“I guess not. It’s a nice place, everyone is quite friendly, and I know how to get around.”

“You like the familiarity, then.”

“I guess so, yeah. It’s comfortable.” Harry messes with the sleeve of his coffee cup, and he can sense Louis’ eyes following his movements. 

Louis nods. “I can relate.”

“Plus, my family is here. I can’t imagine not seeing my mum or sister whenever I want.”

“A family man?” Louis grins, and Harry nods. “I could never leave my family behind, either.” 

There’s a brief flicker of sadness in Louis’ eyes, but Harry decides not to comment on it. 

“You see them often?” Harry asks.

“I try to visit every day, since I live right in town.”

Harry whistles. “You got me beat as the bigger family man, I suppose.”

Louis pretends to think, placing a finger to his chin and looking towards the ceiling, and Harry swears it’s the most adorable thing he’s seen. “Let’s say we’re tied, for now.”

“Sounds fair.” 

Harry glances out the window, only to catch Zayn walking out of Payne’s Psychic Readings, pulling an acid-washed denim jacket over his Def Leppard shirt and popping the collar up. His hair, rather than being long and black, is now dyed bright red at the tips and twisted into tiny ponytails. He shakes a pack of cigarettes until one pops out into his palm and brings it to his lips, walking the opposite direction as he lights up. Harry’s smile slips from his face, heart thumping against his ribcage.

“So . . . is Zayn friends with Liam?” He points outside with his chin, towards Zayn’s retreating figure. Louis follows his gaze and sighs. 

“No. I mean, I don’t know exactly. He’s been going to the shop for a week now but won’t tell me why. Very secretive about it all. But he also keeps gushing about Liam, so I think he might fancy him.” He pauses. “It would be rather cute if I didn’t know he was keeping something from me.”

“Oh, do you think they’re together?” 

Louis shakes his head. “Nah. Maybe eventually, but not yet.”

“So, that day we met was your first time at the shop, then?” Harry almost winces at the question, how unsubtle he is being, but it’s been nagging at him for quite some time. 

“Yeah. I’m not big on psychics meself, but Zayn really wanted a painting. He read about it on an art blog somewhere and fell in love with the style. Wouldn’t stop talking about it.”

Harry forces a laugh. “Did he get one, then?”

“Surprisingly, no.” Louis shakes his head. “The bloke told Zayn that he couldn’t paint for him because the image was ‘cloudy’ or summat. Very cryptic.”

“That’s Liam for you.” He looks down at the chipped pink nailpolish on his fingernails. “But you don’t believe in any of it?”

“I like to think I’m open-minded,” he says. “So I’m not going to say I don’t believe. But personally, I’d much rather be surprised about who my soulmate is — if they exist — than ruin it for myself, you know what I mean?”

Harry swallows hard, trying to force down the lump in his throat. He nods and tries for a smile, but his mind is racing too fast for him to mask the emotions he’s feeling. 

The romantic in him is screaming at the sky, but the pessimistic side of him (the one he relies on more often these days) is agreeing with Louis. The entire idea of soulmates is absurd, and he can’t quite believe he has allowed these intrusive thoughts to swallow him whole. He wishes he could let the idea go, shrug his shoulders and move on with his life, but it’s much easier said than done.

He wants to ask: _Did you get a painting?_ And if so: _Was your painting of me?_

But he can’t. He just can’t. 

The entire situation is so stupid.

“Yeah, I get it.” He nods and takes a long sip of coffee, hoping that Louis can’t see past the bullshit. He doesn’t know what he would say, if pressed about it. 

But thankfully, Louis changes the subject. “By the way, the Rovers are playing Bristol this weekend. I can get you some tickets, if you want to come.”

Harry had known about the game, of course, but he is still surprised to be invited by Louis himself. And from the way Louis is biting his lip, Harry can tell just how nervous Louis is inviting Harry to his game, and it sort of blows his mind. He’s watched Louis steal the attention on the field and in front of the camera for years now, but the more he gets to know him, the more Harry begins to see how little the public image of Louis represents who he is. Louis — who Harry had always thought of as larger than life, the center of attention, life of the party — is also incredibly shy. Underneath all of the flirting and innuendos and chatter, he is just as unsure and awkward as Harry is. The realization has a weirdly sobering effect.

“I would love to come. Thank you,” he says. 

Louis’ face brightens; Harry wishes he could take a picture. “Brilliant. I’ll put you down for two tickets then? You and Niall?”

Harry pauses. “Make it three.”

“You gonna bring a hot date?” Louis teases, but there’s an undercurrent of stress in his smile.

“No, no. I’m inviting Liam. Poor bloke doesn’t get out enough.” Harry shakes his head and smiles. “He’s still new and I’m on a mission to befriend him.”

“Oh, good. I mean, Zayn will be thrilled, I’m sure.” Louis stumbles over the words, but his body visibly relaxes. 

Harry bites back another smile. “I’m sure he will.”

+++

The field is a blur of red, white, and blue. The Doncaster Rovers v. Bristol Rovers game is nearing the three-quarter mark, with Doncaster leading by one point, and the crowd is going absolutely mental. Being a home game, the sea of red and white overpowers the blue of the Bristol fans ten-to-one. Harry, Niall, and Liam are decked out from head-to-toe in Doncaster gear with Louis’ number painted on their faces, while Niall waves a giant foam finger around wildly. Both teams are fighting for their lives on the pitch, and from this close up, Harry can see everything. Every trip of the feet, drip of sweat, and jersey grab is happening only a hundred yards away. And he is finding it difficult to keep track of the chaos.

Louis had gotten them access to the sidelines somehow, right next to where the players go to rest on the benches, instead of seating them in the luxury boxes or the stands, and when Niall and Liam had found out they had both nearly kissed Harry in excitement.

“If you don’t bone him, I will.” Niall had joked. 

And right now, it is impossible not to allow the adrenaline and excitement to overtake his senses — including all rational thought. Every time Louis runs by, whether he has the ball in his possession or not, Harry’s heart does a cartwheel-ish, loop-de-loop motion and he can’t help but cheer louder, smile growing wider whenever Louis makes a good play. He looks fucking marvelous, too. Harry can’t stop staring.

“You know, I’ve never been big on footy.” Liam says in his ear. “But this is amazing.”

Harry laughs and claps Liam on the shoulder. “Glad you’re enjoying it, mate.”

Beside them, Niall returns holding three beers, oblivious to the amber liquid spilling over his hands. “Say hello to our pre-celebration celebration.”

“Cheers.” Liam grabs one of the beers and starts chugging right away. Niall and Harry stare at each other with wide eyes, barely holding back their laughter as they drink along with him. The crowd roars around them and Harry whips his head towards the pitch, sloshing the beer in his hand. 

Louis has just made a goal. And he missed it.

“Fucking hell.” He mutters, bringing the cup to his lips and staring towards the spot on the pitch where Louis’ teammates have wrangled him into a group hug. Harry can’t see his face, but he can imagine the wide, crinkly-eyed smile he’s wearing.

He turns back to see Niall and Liam watching him. “What?”

“Nothing,” they say, almost in unison, and Harry rolls his eyes.

“Louis is doing pretty well,” Liam says. Conversationally. 

Harry glances at Liam and then back towards the field, where Bristol is now getting ready to kickoff. He can’t find Louis amongst the numbers, meaning he’s stuck on the other side. “He always does.”

Niall laughs. “Harry knows all of Louis’ individual statistics. It’s actually pretty impressive.”

“Really?” Liam looks to Harry, but Harry doesn’t respond. “Number of goals?”

“Overall or this season?” He asks without thinking. 

Liam considers. “Overall.”

“Fifty-two.”

His cheeks burn and he looks towards the field, ignoring Niall’s boisterous laugh and Liam’s impressed whistle. It’s not weird, Harry thinks, to know a player's numbers. It’s really not. But he keeps his mouth shut, instead opting to take another swig of beer, watching as the ball is set up. 

“Aww, Haz, we’re only teasing.” Niall drawls and drapes his arm around Harry, shaking him slightly before letting go. 

“How is it going with him, anyway?” Liam asks, his eyes burning into the side of Harry’s face.

“We’re friends,” he says, hoping that will suffice. But then Niall snorts.

“Friends who are desperately attracted to one another.” He laughs, dodging a swat from Harry’s hand. “Oi! It’s not my fault you got it bad. I’m rooting for you two.”

“Anyway,” he says loudly, trying to change the subject. “I think I saw Zayn coming out of your shop the other day. What’s that about?”

Liam’s cheeks go pink. “Ah, that’s confidential.”

“Oh my god, are you boning Tomlinson’s manager?” Niall’s mouth drops open. “Am I going to be a fifth wheel from now on?”

“No!” The blush has reached Liam’s ears, and Harry feels a slight satisfaction at turning the tables on him. “He’s been coming to me for private sessions. That’s all I can say. He’s a client.”

Niall rests his chin on his fist and stares at Liam. “You know, I can see the two of you together. So cute.”

Liam’s blush deepens as Harry and Niall burst into laughter. They refocus their attention on the field, where the players are moving again. Harry gets distracted as Louis runs by, his white shorts billowing around his muscular thighs. Louis looks incredible in his uniform, and after playing over half a game, Harry can see the sweat soaking through his jersey and plastering his hair to his forehead. It’s enough to send Harry’s thoughts spiraling to places he would rather they not go. Because Louis is so close. So. Close.

“Well, Zayn will be at Louis’ for the party tonight. Does that breach any professional guidelines of yours, Mr. Psychic?” Harry needs a distraction, and right now, bantering with Liam and Niall is the way to do it. Though, thinking about the party tonight isn’t helping much, either. Whenever he thinks about it, his mind fixates on the fact that it’s at Louis’ flat, that Louis will be there, happy and drinking, celebrating regardless of the game’s outcome . . . and his heart lurches.

Liam scoffs. “I befriended you, didn’t I?”

“Ah, but I was a one-time client.” Harry points out. 

“True, but you may as well be a regular. I give you too many freebies.” Liam jokes, crossing his arms over his chest and pouting his lips.

Harry reaches over and prods Liam’s cheek. “You said so yourself, it’s because you like me.”

“God knows why.” 

“It’s your psychic intuition.” Harry flashes a cheeky smile, dimples and all.

“Aww.” Niall coos. “Look at us three amigos. I’m so glad Harry adopted you, Li.”

Liam giggles. “Me too.”

The rest of the match goes by in a blur, Harry’s eyes glued to Louis the entire time, even when he has to sit out for a bit on the bench to catch his breath and rest. Harry doesn’t even watch the field, not when Louis is right there, drinking from his water bottle and sprinkling a bit over his reddened face. At one point, Louis glances their way and the two of them briefly make eye contact, both breaking out in wide smiles. 

Harry has to admit that this is one of the best days he has had in a really long time. Niall and Liam are beside him, bantering together and cheering for the Rovers, and he’s got the best view in the entire stadium of his favorite team playing a good game. Looking back to just a few weeks ago, Harry could not have predicted that this is where he would be right now, and he can’t help but smile. 

He’s happy. It’s been a while since he could say that. But he is.

There’s a deafening roar in the stadium when Doncaster makes their winning goal, ending the game with a score of 3-2. Harry, Niall, and Liam scream at the top of their lungs, waving their arms and jumping up and down in circles. A chorus of shouting erupts as the team’s fans yell out one of their classic chants, “[ And It’s Donny Rovers ](https://www.fanchants.com/football-songs/doncaster_rovers-chants/donny-rovers-fc/).” The sound reverberating in his ears is so beautiful that Harry finds himself choked up as he tries (in vain) to follow along:

_And it’s Donny Rovers_

_Donny Rovers FC_

_We’re by far the greatest team_

_The world has ever seen_

He watches as Louis and the rest of the team crash into each other in a dog pile, mixing their sweat and tears and interweaving their limbs until they become one unintelligible mass of bodies. It’s their fourth win of the season so far, which places them higher up among the ranks, bettering their chances even more of making it to Championships. 

When the team finally breaks apart, Harry catches Louis running towards the other end of the pitch towards a small group of young women and a pair of fraternal twins, all of whom share an eerie likeness to Louis himself, though Harry notices the obvious person missing. Niall and Liam are chatting excitedly about the game beside him, but Harry can’t seem to drag his eyes away as Louis talks to his family, hugging them one-by-one and ruffling their hair, laughing when the platinum blond one punches him in the shoulder. He crouches down to eye-level with the smaller ones as they collapse into his waiting arms.

It’s the cutest fucking thing Harry has ever seen.

They talk for a bit longer, Louis gesturing wildly with his hands, giving a play-by-play of the entire game as though they hadn’t just watched it unfold in real time. His siblings are smiling and listening though, nodding along and laughing every time he makes a joke. Harry is so caught up in it all, that when Louis turns in his direction and points, he doesn’t have time to look away before he’s been caught staring.

He makes eye contact with Louis, whose smile only grows after catching Harry, and they stand like that, in their own brief little bubble, before his sisters pull his attention away again. 

“Oi, earth to Harry!” Niall snaps in his face.

The fans in the stadium are beginning to trickle out, leaving behind nothing but plastic cups, food wrappers, and foam fingers, along with an empty silence. Niall and Liam are currently staring at him — probably have been for a while now — a slight twinge of impatience but also smugness in their expressions. “Yeah?” 

“Just making sure you were still breathing.”

Harry frowns and rubs at the back of his neck, trying his hardest not to look back towards the opposite end of the pitch. “For now.”

Liam pats him on the back. “For a long while, actually.” 

Niall and Harry both turn to Liam blankly. 

“Do you know how freaky it is when you say stuff like that?” Niall asks.

“Eh,” Liam shrugs. “It doesn’t bother me.”

Harry flicks his ear. “Yeah, well, it’s very unsettling for us.”

“Duly noted.”

“What’s unsettling?” A voice asks, and Harry whips his head around to face Louis, who is standing very close, directly in front of him. Harry instinctively takes a step back while he splutters, trying very hard to remember how to breathe correctly.

“Hey, mate!” Niall yells, opening his arms. “Good game!”

Louis steps into the hug and pats Niall on the back, grinning. “Thanks, mate. Glad you came.”

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me? I almost kissed Harry when he told me where we’d be. Once in a lifetime opportunity. Would never pass it up.”

“Maybe not once in a lifetime.” Louis laughs. 

Niall clutches at his heart and gasps. “Don’t play with a man’s love of footy.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

While Niall punches the air, Liam and Louis share another one of those back patting hugs, and Harry still can’t quite find his breath, trying hard to recover from his overloading senses. Because Louis is standing here, looking like _that_ , right after Harry saw the way he interacted with his family . . . and it’s all a little bit too much. It’s one thing to talk about their families, but it is an entirely separate thing to see how sweet and soft Louis was with them in person.

“Did you enjoy the game?” Louis is looking at Harry, eyes twinkling.

“Best game I’ve ever been to.” 

“Bullshit.” Louis laughs. 

Liam and Niall chime in with “It really was a great game!” and “It was fuckin’ beautiful!” and Louis is blushing bright red, his entire face glowing with shy satisfaction. 

“You guys are coming to mine tonight to celebrate, right?”

He’s looking at Harry again, always at Harry, and it’s getting harder and harder to keep himself from crashing into the nethersphere. “Of course.”

“Great! I’ll text you the address. Be there by ten o’clock. I’ll be with my family for a bit, but let me know if you need anything, okay?”

“Right.” Harry nods. 

“Okay.” And then Louis is smiling softer, stepping into Harry’s personal space and wrapping his arms around Harry’s shoulders and squeezing tight. Harry freezes briefly under the unexpected touch, before his body relaxes and he’s melting into the hug, his arms sliding cautiously around Louis’ waist, lifting him slightly. 

It’s a quick hug. Nothing to lose his mind over. It ends just as quickly as it began and Louis is smiling at each of them before jogging out of sight, probably towards the locker rooms. 

Harry stands there, arms hanging by his sides, remembering the heavy warmth of Louis’ limbs tangled around him and the smell of sweat on his skin — a smell that was sweet and salty, almost heady. One-hundred percent Louis. He closes his eyes and tries to steady his pulse, committing the hug to memory, as Niall whistles low beside him.

“Told you. He’s got it bad.”

+++

Because of what happened the last time Harry went out with Louis, he has made the decision to be smarter.

And by smarter, he means, more careful. He’s only had one drink since arriving at Louis’ flat over an hour ago and cut himself off after that. The other boys — all four of them, plus the rest of Louis’ team — are drinking copiously. They are all celebrating today’s win, throwing back tequila shots and biting limes, licking salt off their hands like they are all in fucking uni again. The room is packed with friends of the team and friends-of-friends of the team and even a few strangers who somehow ended up trickling in. The atmosphere is euphoric, and Harry wants nothing more than to join in. 

As soon as they had arrived, Louis had already been starting on his second beer. He welcomed them with excitement and gave them a brief tour before handing them each a drink. 

“Tonight is a fucking celebration. Drink up.” 

That had been an hour ago. Since then, Harry has kept mostly to himself, sipping on his glass of water as the other boys dispersed into the crowd, mingling and making friends so easily that he couldn’t help but feel a surge of jealousy. He longs for the days where he used to put himself out there, whether it be making friends or initiating more. It had never been hard for him before, but after everything he’s been through, these days it seems impossible.

And he knows that Niall would want him to give in and go for it with Louis. Liam would probably encourage him, as well, with his all-knowingness and shit. It’s just . . . Harry isn’t ready for it. Not yet, and not here. He hasn’t gone out with anyone in years, or had sex in months. He’s off his game. Rusty. And he can’t look at Louis as he would any casual fling. He doesn’t want to. He also can’t think about dating Louis when they have hardly started their friendship, and Harry is too broken inside to be able to give his heart to someone else. 

And he can’t control himself around Louis. Not when he drinks. When he drinks, all of those facts fly out the window, which leaves him with nothing but his yearning. 

So. Sober it is.

It’s not like being sober is boring, per se. But being the only sober one in a room full of people drunk off their asses definitely isn’t Harry’s idea of a good time. He’s the type who needs a few drinks in him to fully let loose, to shake off his nerves and allow his tightly wound muscles to uncoil as the alcohol travels through his veins. Otherwise, he finds himself overthinking it all.

Unlike Niall, or Liam, or even Zayn, it seems. Unlike Louis.

Louis is currently tipping back a fourth shot of tequila with a handful of his teammates, his Adam’s apple bobbing slowly. He slams the shot glass back on the table and shakes his head with puckered lips, but his smile grows wide and sloppy. He had already downed three beers before moving onto shots and was starting to stumble around the room, his voice and laughter cutting through the booming bass, forcing everyone to notice his presence. Because Louis is the life of the party — of course he is — flitting from group to group and acting like a good host, living up to his name by engaging in conversation and laughing at people’s jokes and even flirting with a few of his teammates, all of whom look at Louis like he is a solar eclipse they can’t help but be blinded by. 

Harry’s fingers tighten around his glass of water. He is trying not to stare, but obviously isn’t doing a very good job of it. 

Niall is across the room, chatting to a few of the players, his cheeks fully red. He’s already plastered, the volume of his voice rising incrementally after each drink he downs, almost to the point where it seems like both Louis and Niall are competing to be the loudest person in the room. Liam and Zayn are in another corner, playing a round of beer pong with a few of Zayn’s friends; Harry watches as Zayn squeezes Liam’s arm before he tosses the ping pong ball, his hand lingering a few seconds too long to be friendly. Harry can’t see Liam’s face, but he wonders if he can feel Zayn’s attraction to him, whether the alcohol is dulling his intuition or if he’s simply in deep denial, because Zayn is looking at him like he’s the only person in the room. Harry looks away, feeling like he’s intruding on something.

[Song: [ What You Know by Two Door Cinema Club]](https://youtu.be/YXwYJyrKK5A)

“There you are,” Louis says. Harry jumps and looks to his side, where Louis is now standing, regarding Harry with glassy eyes and red lips. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Harry loses the ability to speak for a moment and has to clear his throat. “Here I am.”

Louis eyes the water in his hand. “Staying sober tonight are we?”

Harry nods.

“Hmm.” Louis eyes him thoughtfully, finger tapping against his own glass. He’s now switched back to beer. “Are you having fun at least?”

“I’m enjoying myself.” He can’t explain to Louis why he isn’t drinking, or how much he wishes he _was_ drinking. But looking at Louis’ flushed cheeks and mussed hair, Harry knows that he made the right decision. If he was drinking, he wouldn’t be able to control his hands. Or his mouth.

“Good, good. I’d be a terrible host if I allowed any of my guests to be miserable.” Louis leans against the countertop and his cotton t-shirt rides up, exposing the lower half of his stomach. Harry’s eyes are drawn to the light dust of hair trailing from his belly button and disappearing beneath the band of his Calvin Klein briefs. His t-shirt reads ‘But Daddy I Love Him’ in red lettering and he’s sporting a pair of jean shorts along with his black-and-white Adidas Superstars. It’s such a simple, casual outfit, but Harry finds his mouth salivating. 

He looks back up to see Louis smirking at him. “Er, it’s a great party.”

“Thank you.” Louis speaks slowly, his gaze dragging up and down the length of Harry’s body, openly checking him out. Which is fair, because Harry had checked him out first, but he still feels his face go hot, unable to move under Louis’ scrutiny. It’s not like he’s wearing anything special or especially flattering. He had thrown on a red-and-white striped t-shirt (to show his support for the team, of course), paired with a pair of light blue flare jeans and some off-white flats. He had tried too hard last time, with the dinner, so this time he had decided to tone it down. (Harry doesn’t even notice how the color scheme of their outfits are matching, either. Nope. Not at all.)

But it seems that Louis likes what he sees, anyways, because he won’t. stop. looking. 

“Um, good game today. You did really well.” He’s trying to distract himself, but then winces when he realizes that he had already told Louis as much earlier. Louis only smiles.

“Yeah? I hope so. Bristol is good, so I was a bit nervous.”

Harry leans back against the countertop. “I mean it. The whole team was brilliant. You guys always smash it.”

The music makes it difficult to hear above the thrumming reverb, so Louis slides closer, his warm breath brushing Harry’s neck and ear. “Please, tell me more about how much you love my football skills.”

He releases a breath of laughter, forcing his eyes down and away from Louis’ heavy stare. They’ve slipped back into flirting territory and if Harry were drinking, he would probably launch into a ten-minute spiel about how amazing Louis looks on the field, the way his body moves more gracefully than anyone he has ever seen, the sheer amount of force he puts into every pass and strike with his strong, lithe legs.

But he isn’t drinking, so instead he says, “You know you’re the best player out there.”

Louis scoffs. “I definitely am not. But I welcome the flattery.”

And maybe it’s the sincere disbelief in Louis’ voice that gives Harry the brief surge of courage, because he looks straight into Louis’ eyes and says, “No. You’re the best player, hands down. You play with more passion than anyone else out there, and you have ten times the skill.”

He watches as a flurry of emotions he can’t quite place flit across Louis’ face, until it’s quickly schooled into a wide, somewhat exaggerated smile. He places his beer on the countertop and lifts Harry’s water out of his, their fingers touching briefly. “Come dance with me.”

“Oh, I—”

“Please?” 

Harry gulps as Louis’ hand rests on his arm, lingering a lot longer than Zayn’s had on Liam’s. He knows he’s playing with fire here, but when Louis is touching him and looking at him like that, he can’t seem to think straight. “Okay, yeah. But I’m not a very good dancer.”

They weave their way through the crowd as Louis laughs, hand still on his arm and squeezing. “I’m not, either.”

Which, as it turns out, is a giant, bald-faced fucking lie. 

Because Louis can dance. Really well. _Too_ well. 

He pulls Harry towards him, wrapping his arms loosely around Harry’s neck and shimmying his hips to the beat in graceful motions, dipping low and sliding back up to full height with a wicked smile. Harry has always known Louis could move, and would often compare his plays on the field to a sort of dance, but this is unlike anything he had ever imagined. 

While Louis playing football is like ballet, all technique, his actual dancing is more modern. Sensual. He knows how his body moves and takes advantage of it, twirling and plunging in ways that highlight the dip of his waist and curve of his hips. 

And he can tell that Louis is still holding back, never letting their bodies press too close or invading Harry’s personal space like most other people would. He’s drunk as hell but still somehow respecting Harry’s boundaries . . . or perhaps just being a tease. Either way, it’s making it really fucking difficult for Harry to keep his distance. 

There are people watching them — Harry senses eyes on the back of his neck — but he’s too entranced by Louis to pull away. In the dim light, he twists and turns around Harry as though he’s a shadow; more specifically, like he’s _Harry’s_ shadow. And he can’t ignore the way their bodies seem to work together: Harry towering over Louis’ petite frame and Louis’ curves contrasting against Harry’s sharp angles. Almost like they are two flames, transcending the physical aspects of the dance until it feels like they are floating, flickering between two planes of existence. It’s a holy, almost religious experience.

Everything is _Louis Louis Louis_.

He blinks, trying to place himself back in reality. Even without the haze of alcohol, he can’t quite stop his thoughts from straying away, as though Louis is pulling him in beyond his will. Harry really needs to step away, otherwise he’s going to lose himself completely. 

He’s about to excuse himself for a drink of water, but then a man sidles up next to them, eyeing Louis with keen interest. Louis doesn’t even notice — is too lost in the dance — but Harry’s body tenses, turning to meet the man’s gaze with burning eyes. The man falters, his eyes flicking between the two of them, before he turns away in defeat. And then Harry freezes, heart hammering, because . . . why did he do that? Louis isn’t his; he has no claim. Harry doesn’t have any right to chase away someone who wants to dance with him. Yet he did. 

“Need some water.” He mumbles, trying to step away, but Louis follows.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Harry won’t meet his gaze. “Just thirsty.”

Louis tries to press further, but Niall moves in from somewhere — Harry hadn’t known he had been watching — and distracts him. “Hey, Tommo! How’d it feel making that goal today?”

“Like a million bucks.” Louis laughs, but his jaw is clenched. Like he has to force it out.

The music harmonizes with the pounding in Harry’s ears as he pushes his way through the crowd, trying to find a way outside. He desperately needs a breath of fresh air to clear his head, to purge all of these unwelcome thoughts. When he finally spots a sliding glass door leading out to a balcony, he rushes towards it, nearly on the verge of collapsing. 

The balcony is mostly empty outside, aside from a couple of women and Zayn, who is standing off to the side, alone, a blunt hanging out of his mouth. Harry pauses. He doesn’t know Zayn very well and he doesn’t want to explain himself right now, but he also needs the cool, fresh air. 

He makes a split-second decision and steps away from the group of women, all of whom are eyeing him with interest, and leans against the balcony railing beside Zayn, whose only acknowledgment of his presence is a slow blink. They stand together in silence, watching the dim lights of buildings and headlights of cars twinkle in the darkness. Zayn takes a long drag from his blunt, puffing rings into the air, before silently offering it over to Harry. Harry watches as the rings waver and disappear into the night before shaking his head. Zayn only shrugs and places the blunt between his lips again.

“I’m glad you could come today,” Zayn says after a while.

Harry can’t meet his eyes, instead watching as a couple holds hands in the street below them. “Thanks for having me. It was incredible.”

Zayn hums. “It was all Louis.”

There isn’t more that needs to be said. The meaning is quite clear. Harry simply nods, eyes still trained on the couple below, who are now giggling and twirling each other as they walk. They are probably tipsy, probably drunk on love. Harry sighs. If he were in a better mood, he would laugh at his own Beyoncé reference. 

“You and Liam seem to be close.” He doesn’t know why he says it, but the words are out before he can take them back.

Zayn's lips twitch slightly and he nods. “So do you and Louis.”

Harry twists his rings. “Louis said you’ve been seeing Liam all week. A two-hour drive every day is a lot.”

Zayn shrugs. “Worth it.”

And that seems to be all he’s going to get from Zayn, so Harry let’s the subject drop. He doesn’t know why he is so invested, anyways. Liam is a psychic and Zayn is his client. That’s all there is to it. Harry should respect that. But there’s a tension in the way Zayn is holding himself right now that makes Harry believe that there’s more he’s not saying, and damn it if he isn’t desperately wanting to know what it is. 

“He seems happier around you.”

Harry turns to look at Zayn then, his heart stuttering. “Who?”

“Louis. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him like this.”

“What makes you think I’m the reason?

Zayn smirks, flicking ash down towards the street. “You are.”

"We barely know each other."

"Doesn't matter."

There are a million thoughts running through Harry’s mind, so fast that he can’t seem to decipher any of them. He stands there, looking like an idiot, while Zayn stands beside him, completely unbothered by the bomb he’s dropped in Harry’s lap. 

Zayn finishes his blunt a little while later, crushing it against the railing and flicking it down onto the street below, right where the couple had been dancing before. He turns to Harry and shares a close-lipped smile, saluting him with two fingers before he disappears inside again. Poof. Like a ghost. 

+++

When Harry finally makes his way inside again, the party seems to have died down a little bit, the crowd thinning out considerably, but it is still much too hot and packed for Harry’s liking. The fresh air had hardly helped to calm his fraying nerves, and the exhaustion of the day is finally beginning to wear him down.

He pushes his way through the flat until he finds a door to one of the guest bedrooms, and is thankful to find it empty when he walks in. The room is clean and tidy, as though it’s hardly used. It’s dark, but he can tell that the walls are painted a light blue, or maybe gray, complementing the dark hardwood floors and white bedspread almost perfectly. (He catalogues Interior Designer in the part of his brain reserved for facts about Louis.)

Exhausted, Harry collapses into the mattress with a heavy sigh, a wave of relief washing over him at the four walls separating him from the rest of the party. He sends a quick text to Niall, letting him know that he’s sleeping in one of the guest rooms, before he climbs beneath the heavy, plush duvet. 

He’s just about to fall asleep when he hears the door click open, the music growing louder for a brief moment before it’s muffled once more. Harry blinks his eyes open, trying to see who it is, but there’s only a silhouette standing before him.

“Hullo?” He whispers, voice thick with sleep.

“Hi,” A soft, high voice breathes. And Harry recognizes it as Louis. 

He moves to sit up, but Louis stops him. “No, no. Don’t get up.”

Harry stills, watching awkwardly as Louis' silhouette moves around to the other side of the bed. There’s a click and then a yellow light is flooding the room so that Harry can see Louis properly. His hair is sticking up in every direction and his lips are red and bitten. He looks absolutely wrecked — but not in a good way. His eyes are glazed and red-rimmed, filled with a bitter sadness that Harry can’t quite describe, but can relate to quite well. 

“Did you want this bed . . . ? I can move—” 

“No.” Louis says, too quick. “Stay.”

“Oh.”

Louis plays with the edge of his t-shirt. “I don’t want to be alone right now.”

Harry swallows hard, keeping his eyes on Louis’ face. They are teetering on the edge of something here, walking the line between friendship and something more, and Harry isn’t sure whether he wants to cross over into that territory. But he remembers the feeling all too well, of being drunk and alone and wanting nothing more than to have someone there to hold him together. He doesn’t know if Louis is feeling that exact way, but he can tell from Louis’ wide-eyed stare and his shallow breaths that there’s a tidal wave inside of him threatening to break free. And Harry can’t stand the thought of leaving him to weather it by himself.

Louis rests one of his knees on the bedspread, testing the waters. “No funny business. Promise.”

He doesn’t know whether Louis is promising him or asking him to promise, but this is the second time Louis has used that voice with him tonight, almost pleading, and Harry finds it impossible to say no. He swallows and nods, watching carefully as a slow, gentle smile grows on Louis’ face, the other man climbing onto the bed and burrowing beneath the covers.

Harry lies completely still, his mind an explosion of frenetic thoughts, as Louis gets comfortable beside him. There’s a moment of awkward silence as Louis brushes his hand against Harry’s and they make full eye contact, the yellow light illuminating every raw emotion. 

“Can I — Do you mind if we cuddle a bit?”

Harry bites his lip, staring into Louis’ eyes, which are the darkest blue he’s seen on him, like a storm churning in the ocean and destroying any ships that dare pass through. He’s drunk and sad and Harry wants nothing more than to help. After a moment, Harry nods and opens his arms, trying to keep his breath steady as Louis leans over to turn off the light before climbing into them, fitting perfectly into the crook of his elbow and molding his body against Harry’s side. Harry counts his breaths in his head, keeping them long and deep as his heart rate increases. 

He hopes to God that Louis doesn’t feel it. And if he does, he hopes he doesn’t mention it.

“Is this okay?” Louis asks, voice soft. Unsure.

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

They settle into sleepy silence, and Harry admits that it’s comfortable, having Louis’ body curled into him, his small hand pressed against Harry’s stomach, head resting heavily on his chest. Their breathing syncs up almost immediately, their bodies rising and falling together, lulling them both deeper and deeper into sleep.

“I like that you get jealous, by the way.” Louis sighs, almost like he’s talking to himself, teetering on the edge of wakefulness and slumber.

“Yeah?” Harry whispers, suddenly wide awake.

“Mmm.” Lous hums, his hand scratching momentarily at Harry’s stomach and then slackening. His breaths start to even out, growing deeper with each passing second, until Harry realizes that he’s fallen asleep. 

Harry breathes, in and out, trying to settle his nerves, but fails miserably.

He lies there as the party sounds die down and the quiet takes over, his mind racing, Louis’ last words echoing on a never-ending loop.

+++

There’s a buzzing noise coming from somewhere nearby and it won’t stop. Harry cracks open one sleepy eye, his head throbbing from lack of sleep, and looks for the source of the noise. The weight of Louis on his chest is gone now, replaced by a cold, empty spot in the bed. Harry doesn’t know when he fell asleep (finally, after a fitful couple of hours), or when Louis decided to leave him, but the discovery creates a thick knot in his stomach.

The source of the noise is soon discovered, and it’s Louis’ phone. A picture of Zayn laughing with the caller id ‘Z’ is flashing on the screen, and each time the phone goes unanswered, the picture reappears seconds later, just as loud and insistent as before. By the way it continues to happen, Harry knows it must be important, and since Louis is nowhere to be seen, he crawls across the bed and grabs the phone, pressing it against his ear.

“Hello?”

A slight pause on the other line. “This isn’t Louis?”

“This isn’t Zayn, either.”

Another pause.

“Harry.”

“Liam.”

“Where is Louis?” 

“I don’t know,” he says, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, the cold floor shocking the bottoms of his feet. “I woke up and he was gone. What’s up?”

“When you find him, can you tell him that Zayn is at the hospital?”

Harry pauses his movements. “What?”

“He’s okay, he only broke his foot. But he asked me to get Louis here.”

“What happened?” Harry winces as the floorboard creaks beneath his weight and he starts walking towards the door. 

Liam’s voice is tense. “Just an accident.”

“Well, were you with him?”

“Yes.” Liam sighs. “Just tell Louis to come here. I’ll send the address.”

“Okay, yeah, no problem.”

Liam hangs up then, leaving behind nothing but a heavy silence and a round of unanswered questions — a habit of his that Harry has gotten quite used to by now. He sighs and starts his search of the house, picking his way through the hallway, past littered red solo cups and the bodies of sleeping partygoers, peeking his head into the living room and (thankfully) spotting Niall passed out on the couch. But no sign of Louis anywhere. He is just about to give up when there’s the slight echo of retching coming from the bathroom at the end of the hall, a thin sliver of light emanating through the crack of the door. Harry approaches it cautiously, knocking softly before he enters. 

Louis is slumped on the gray-tiled floor, his face pressed against the toilet seat. The sharp, stale scent of vomit is pungent, but Harry resists wrinkling his nose. Louis barely raises his head at the intrusion, but his eyes fall on Harry’s face almost instantly.

“Are you okay?”

Instead of answering, Louis groans, closing his eyes and wincing in pain. 

“Erm,” Harry doesn’t know what to do here. “Zayn called — well, Liam called from Zayn’s phone — and Zayn is in the hospital with a broken foot. Was asking for you.”

At the mention of ‘hospital,’ Louis’ eyes shoot open and he’s trying to sit upright. Harry moves to help him, but he shakes his head, his body wobbling unsteadily as he rises to his feet. He’s stripped out of his t-shirt and is wearing nothing but his jean shorts and a pair of white socks. The man is a mess.

Louis reaches out towards his phone in Harry’s palm. “Did he send an address?”

His voice is hoarse from the vomiting. Harry nods. “It’s in your texts.”

“Perfect.” Louis starts to slowly make his way out of the bathroom, holding his stomach.

“Do you — I mean, do you need someone to drive for you?”

Louis turns and shakes his head, eyes round. “No. Dear god, no. Stay here and sleep.”

“But—” 

“Trust me. This happens all the time.”

Harry only gapes at him.

“I puked everything up, Harry. I’m fine to drive. Please, just sleep.” Louis drags a hand along his chin and scratches at his beard; Harry notices the bags beneath his eyes and the way his mouth forms into a thin line. He knows that Louis is more stressed than he’s letting on, but he doesn’t push the subject.

“Okay.”

He stands there in the harsh light of the bathroom, listening to Louis stumbling around the flat and attempting to get himself together. The flat door opens and closes a minute later and Harry lets loose a long breath. Everything has happened far too fast for his sleep-deprived mind to comprehend, but now that he is awake, it is impossible to go back to bed, especially knowing that Louis will be coming back. And Harry doesn’t want to know whether Louis would crawl back into bed with him or not. 

He can’t decide which one would hurt more.

Harry sighs and leaves the bathroom, instead opting to wake up Niall and go home. Niall doesn’t question him when he asks, only sits up with bleary eyes, his brown hair standing upright, and hands his car keys to Harry, mumbling something about still being too drunk. They navigate their way out of the flat, careful not to disturb the others sleeping, and find the Audi parked not too far down the street. The cold chill of early, early morning is enough to wake Harry up fully, and by the time they’ve made it onto the motorway, his mind is alive with an almost frantic energy.

The words _This happens all the time_ and _I don’t want to be alone_ are bouncing around in his head as he drives, scraping at his skull, an unbearable itch that Harry doesn’t have the energy to scratch. But it’s there. There are so many parts of Louis he doesn’t know, and it seems like his relationship with Zayn (which seems complicated) is one item to add onto an ever-growing list. He had just started to think that maybe he was close to understanding Louis; in some ways, he is the most open person Harry has ever met, but in other ways, Harry can’t quite seem to figure him out. This entire night has proved as much.

“You’re thinking again,” Niall yawns, reaching over to grip Harry’s free hand. Anchoring him. 

“I know.” Harry sighs. He clenches his other hand around the steering wheel, focusing on the cold leather and Niall’s warm skin to keep him steady.

They spend the rest of the two-hour drive in silence, the pinkening sky announcing a brand new day, while Harry tries his hardest not to think at all about the previous one.

+++

_Where did you go??_

_I'm guessing you left_

_I bought bagels :(_

_You’re prob sleeping rn_

_But let me know you got home safe, ok?_

+++

Harry isn’t proud to admit that he has been dodging Louis’ texts for the past few days. After sending a short response to his initial texts, just to let him know that he had gotten home okay, Harry had practically thrown his phone across the room. 

It’s not that he wants to ignore Louis, he just doesn’t know how to talk to him after what happened the other night. The urge is there, but there are two huge factors stopping him: 1) He knows Louis likes him and he is starting to realize that his own feelings may have surpassed infatuation, and 2) Louis’ life might be as big of a mess as Harry’s is. And when you combine two messy people, life only gets messier; Harry doesn’t want that for himself, or for Louis. 

But still, he surprises himself when he ends up at the football pitch that Wednesday afternoon after the teams are done practicing. He had been working on Louis’ article for the paper (he had to channel all of that pent up energy _somewhere_ ), when he realized that he had finished it, and the only person he wanted to show was Louis. So naturally, he had ended up here without thinking. Naturally.

The pitch is almost empty, both teams having trickled out towards their cars or the locker room showers. Niall passes by Harry with a meaningful look and a pat on the back, which, in his own silent language, means _Good luck_. Harry looks farther out and sees that Louis is still there, lying in the middle of the field, body spread out starfish-style and a football between his legs. Harry takes a deep breath and walks over to him, lying down far enough away so that he can spread his limbs out to match Louis’. Kind of like snow angels. Only without the snow.

“Hi,” he says. Which sounds so lame. 

Louis doesn’t acknowledge him, doesn’t even turn his head, instead opting to stare at the sky overhead. There’s tension hanging between them, much like the clouds above. Harry tries to grasp at the right words to say something substantial and important, but it’s almost like grabbing at empty air.

“Is Zayn alright?”

Louis huffs a breath. “Yeah. He’ll be fine. Broke his foot jumping off a ten foot ledge.”

“Why’d he do that?”

“He always does stuff like that.”

Louis’ tone is stiff and angry, clearly upset with Harry for ignoring him, and Harry can’t blame him. But he hasn’t gotten up to leave yet, which is a small victory. 

“Did I do something wrong?” Louis asks suddenly, his head turning so he can stare at Harry.

Harry’s so surprised that he flinches. “No!” 

“It’s just, you were gone when I got back to my flat and you’ve been ignoring my texts.”

“Right. I mean, I just felt awkward being in your flat without you there, so I left.”

Louis nods. “Okay.”

“And I’ve just been . . . busy. With work and stuff.”

“Right.”

“I’ve actually been working on your article. I’ve got it all drafted. I wanted to run it by you before it gets published. Make sure it’s okay.”

“Sure.”

He tries not to feel hurt at the one word answers that Louis is giving him — he knows he deserves it. But Harry hates conflict, can’t stand the thought of someone being angry with him or hating him. Especially someone like Louis, whose opinion means everything to him.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Really. I didn’t mean to ignore you.”

Louis eyes him. “I think you did.”

Harry’s hands start to tremble and he can’t look Louis in the face. “I got scared.”

Maybe Louis can sense the pain underlying those words, or the strength it took for Harry to admit such a weakness, or maybe he simply feels pity for him. Harry can’t quite tell. Regardless, he sighs and shoots his hand out, making a grabbing motion with his fingers. “So can I read it?”

A long breath escapes Harry’s lips and he hands the draft over to Louis, eyes still trained on the sky above. “It took me a bit. Wanted to get it right.”

Louis hums and goes silent as he reads the article. 

The silence stretches on between them as Louis reads and Harry watches the clouds float on high, morphing into a dozen different shapes in the span of a minute, never quite able to decide what they want to be. Harry wishes he could change that easily.

Beside him, Louis rises to his feet in a rush and Harry looks up to see him nibbling on his thumb and staring at the article with wet eyes. He quickly scrambles off the ground. “What’s wrong?”

Louis shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“Then why are you crying?”

“It’s . . . a good article. Really good.”

“Are you sure?”

As soon as Harry steps closer, there are arms wrapping firmly around his waist and pulling him in, a woosh of breath being pushed out of his lungs. Unlike the one after the Rovers’ match, this hug lingers. It’s one of those hugs that warms you from the inside out, all the way from the tips of your fingers to the tips of your toes. And this time, Harry reacts much quicker, his arms circling Louis’ shoulders, their cheeks squished together. He buries his face into Louis’ neck and catches the scent of his hair (which smells like bubblegum, for the record). He doesn’t know how long they stand like that, but Harry is thankful for it; he had been worried that Louis wouldn’t forgive him, or want to be his friend anymore.

“I especially love the fifth paragraph.” Louis whispers before pulling away. His eyes are red and watery but he smiles up at Harry like he’s a cold glass of water on a hot summer’s day. Like he’s been waiting in the middle of a drought and Harry is the rain. 

And Louis is a book that Harry wants nothing more to crack open and cradle at the spine, absorbing every word, fragment, and sentence he has to share. He wants to memorize all of the passages that assemble together to create his masterpiece.

Louis leaves before Harry can respond, or maybe do something he’ll regret. Maybe that’s why Louis does it. He knows that they aren’t quite there yet. And _one_ of them has to think clearly. Harry is starting to realize that, when it comes to Louis, he will never be able to think clearly.

He spends a long time standing in the middle of the empty field, wondering why on earth he is letting Louis walk away from him, when all he wants to do is grab on tight and never let go.

+++

Song: [ The Way I Feel Inside by The Zombies ](https://youtu.be/uoR-zKXl-BA)

  
  
  


**Louis Tomlinson To Play Charity Match in Holmes Chapel by Harry Styles**

_There is no name bigger in the world of football than Louis Tomlinson. He is well-known for being one of the UK’s first openly gay players, having come out upon being signed with the Doncaster Rovers back in 2015._

_“Coming out, for me, was one of the scariest, but most exciting, feelings in the world,” he says._

_As a midfielder for the Doncaster Rovers, a League One team that is this year’s favorite to win the championship, Tomlinson describes his passion for the game as “a true life’s calling.” Though, when asked what his favorite part about being famous was, Tomlinson responded that he “loves getting to be able to make a difference, whether that be donating to a cause I believe in or acting as a positive role model for others.”_

_Tomlinson has donated a grand total of £2,000,000 to a variety of charities throughout the UK, including The Eden Dora Trust, Stacey’s Smiles, Bluebell Wood Children’s Hospice, The Harvey Hext Trust - A Sibling’s Wish, the Yorkshire Children of Courage Awards, and many more. He also hosted a Believe in Magic Cinderella Ball back in 2015 when he first signed onto the team._

_But these facts hardly scratch the surface of who Tomlinson is as a person. A self-described family man, soft rock enthusiast, and admirer of cheese pastries, Tomlinson finds pleasure in the simple things in life. “One of my favorite pastimes is drinking a good cup of tea and watching the telly,” he says. “Nothing beats relaxing at home after a long day. My mum used to say that we should enjoy the simpler things in life and I agree.”_

_Tomlinson, along with the rest of the Doncaster Rovers, is set to play an upcoming charity match against the Holmes Chapel Hurricanes on December 6 at the Holmes Chapel Community Centre. The match is in partnership with local LGBT clubs at Holmes Chapel Comprehensive School, Congleton High School, and Sandbach School as well as The Proud Trust. Tickets for the general public will be sold for £25 on the Community Centre’s website and at the front desk. All proceeds will be directed towards renovating the local LGBT Youth Center. Please call +44 5555 123456 for any questions you may have._

_“It’s for a good cause,” Tomlinson says. “Please consider donating. LGBT youth need a safe place they can go to feel accepted and have the opportunity to be fully themselves. Providing them with that space is an honorable goal.”_


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's past comes knocking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: MENTIONS/DESCRIPTIONS OF PANIC ATTACKS, PAST ABUSE/TRAUMA, AND ALCOHOL ABUSE

Harry is going to fucking murder Niall.

No, really. 

Louis is on his way to their flat, and Niall simply refuses to help clean it up. He’s currently standing in the middle of the room, cackling, while Harry rushes back and forth, picking up pairs of abandoned socks and throwing them in his face; collecting old takeaway boxes and tossing them in a garbage bag; and generally trying his best to make the place less of a pigsty. Half of the mess is Niall’s, anyway. But the other man won’t budge.

“I think you’re making too big a deal out of this,” he’s saying. Which makes Harry want to kill him even more.

“And I think you’re being a twat for no reason.” Harry shoots back. “I don’t know why we even let it get this messy in the first place.”

Niall shrugs. “It’s partly your mess, too. You can’t yell at me.”

He pauses and raises a single brow. “You wanna bet?”

“Okay, geez. I’ll do the dishes or something.” Niall gives Harry a wide berth as he starts heading towards the kitchen, eyes wary. “You can be scary sometimes.”

“Hardly.” Harry rolls his eyes. “Plus, we need space to do all of the work _you_ forgot to do for the charity match. So really, whose fault is this?”

Niall drops his jaw. “I was busy with _other_ stuff, thank you. Organizing events isn’t as easy as it looks.”

And okay, that’s fair enough. Harry keeps his mouth shut as the two of them work on making the flat at least somewhat presentable. It’s not that Harry wants to impress Lous, per se . . . but he really cannot stand the thought of Louis walking in to see old beer bottles and dirty underwear and empty crisp bags strewn about. 

Well. Maybe he wants to impress him a little bit.

He doesn’t know where he stands with Louis at this point. Ignoring him after the party had created a rift between them, but after Louis had hugged Harry on the footy pitch, Harry had thought that maybe they could go back to being friends. Except Louis has been distant over text for the past week, and Harry doesn’t know what to do, or how to make it better.

He’s just finished hiding his painting of the man himself far, far in the back of his closet (oh, the irony), when the doorbell rings. “Niall!”

Somewhere from the sitting room, he hears Niall laugh. “Yeah, yeah. I got it.”

Harry huffs and tugs at the end of his jumper, rolling the sleeves halfway up his forearms in a fit of nerves. He fixes his curls as best he can, eyeing himself in the mirror and frowning at his reflection. He’s wearing a baggy lavender sweater, a pair of bright green trousers, and a pearl necklace. And there’s nothing wrong with his outfit exactly, but it’s really not an autumn look. 

He had tried hard — again — to make it look like he wasn’t trying. And the whole ‘trying not to look like he is trying hard’ thing is getting exhausting. And knowing that he is trying hard, despite trying hard to look like he is not trying hard, is also exhausting. Add that onto the fact that he hasn’t been sleeping at night, instead tossing and turning, obsessing over all things Louis-related . . . 

To sum it up: Harry is exhausted.

He’s coming out of his bedroom when Niall opens the door to the flat, Louis right on his heels. 

“I brought a gift.” Niall opens his arms with a flourish, as though presenting Louis to Harry.

Louis laughs. “I doubt I’m much of a gift, but thank you for that wonderful entrance.”

Niall throws his arm around Louis’ shoulder and steers him towards the sitting room, where there are hundreds of printed leaflets and unassembled team kits and merchandise waiting on the coffee table. “That’s where you’re wrong, Tommo. You are a gift to _me_ , because you so kindly agreed to help me today.”

Harry follows behind, fingers twitching against his leg, while Louis laughs again. He hasn’t made eye contact with Harry yet.

“Well, I couldn’t leave the two of you to do it yourselves.” Then Louis turns and looks at Harry, his cheeks immediately turning red. Harry dies a little. “Though I must say, it’s a bit late to be sending out advertisements, isn’t it?”

Niall throws his arms up in the air, flinging himself back into the couch. “I was busy with other things! Jesus, you and Harry are relentless.”

“I didn’t know Jesus was here?” Louis snorts and glances at Harry again, as though seeking approval for the joke. His gaze flicks away a moment later.

And, well, Harry is trying really, really hard not to get on his knees right now.

Niall’s eyes bounce between the two of them like he’s watching his favorite show. “What? Now you two are sharing a sense of humor? I can’t handle two Harry’s.”

“Nah.” Louis’ fingers twitch. “There can only be one Harry.”

“And there’s definitely only one Louis.” Harry bites back a smile.

“Ugh. Get a room. But do it after you help me, please.” Niall starts sorting through the mess of leaflets and folding the edges. He and Louis are both blushing from Niall’s joke, still unable to look the other in the eye, so Harry welcomes the distraction. There’s a separate pile at the end of the table of t-shirts, jerseys, badges, and other assorted gear that is meant to be sold during the match. And yet another pile of the team kits that will be handed out to both teams, as well as the teens who will be attending the match. The entire setup is incredibly overwhelming, and Harry doesn’t know where to begin.

“Er, so, leaflets, merch, or team kits first?” Harry asks. 

“Leaflets need to be sent out tomorrow. Or, they should’ve been sent out a while ago, but I digress. Tomorrow it is.” Niall’s voice pitches up slightly. Harry only nods and picks up a stack, knowing that the more questions he asks, the more stressed out Niall will get. 

“Right,” Louis says, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. “Let’s do this shit.”

They each settle into their work, finding their own spots on the floor or on the couch and folding their separate piles of leaflets. It’s oddly calming work, Harry thinks, to have his attention on nothing but the task at hand and allow his mind to empty out. Even with Louis right there — looking gorgeous in a pair of light blue jeans with holes at the knees, combined with a shirt that says ‘Ferricadooza’ and a black zip-up hoodie — Harry is somehow still able to focus on his work. Despite one or two (or three) glances Louis’ way. 

He counts that as a win.

“So, how many tickets have been sold so far?” Louis asks when they have nearly finished all the leaflets. 

“Around four-hundred in-person tickets, but I also started selling virtual tickets. We’re gonna livestream the match to gain more in donations.” Niall is practically bouncing.

Louis looks impressed. “That’s brilliant. How much have we got so far?”

“Hmm. I can’t say the exact number off the top of my head, but it’s lookin’ really good.”

Harry chimes in. “We’ve also got a bunch of pre-orders for merch. I think this match is going to bring in a lot of money for the Center.”

Louis' smile falters a bit when he looks at Harry. “Good to hear.”

The silence that follows is slightly awkward, but Harry can see that Louis’ energy has perked up a bit upon hearing how well the donations and ticket sales are going. He hums slightly to himself as he finishes folding his last leaflet, and when he catches Harry looking, a blush forms along his cheeks.

“Okay, so now we just have to organize the team kits and merch.” Niall interrupts, though Harry couldn't quite describe exactly _what_ he was interrupting. 

Harry and Louis groan at the same time, which causes them both to glance at each other, blushes deepening. 

A groan is Niall’s only response, but he’s smiling.

The rest of the work goes by much faster than the leaflets. Harry and Louis take on the task of putting together the team kits while Niall organizes the merchandise. Harry, feeling reckless and wanting Louis’ attention, leans into his personal space, pretending to grab for a rubber bracelet. He reaches far enough so that his sweater crawls up his stomach to reveal the laurels tattooed across his lower abdomen. Louis inhales sharply, hands fumbling over the ribbon he’s currently tying around a bag of football-themed goodies. Harry smirks and sits back down, moving slightly closer and resting his knee against Louis’. 

Louis doesn’t react outwardly, but Harry notices that he makes sure to keep their knees touching, even when he has to reach across the pile in front of them. 

Harry’s heart glows.

He doesn’t know why he’s playing this game when he knows it’s a tightrope walk. If he pushes too far or loses his balance, both he and Louis will go tumbling down. But he’s also sort of high on it, because he likes Louis and there’s a part of his brain that tends to switch off whenever he’s around. Probably the part that controls common sense.

He doesn’t realize Niall is watching him until they make eye contact a while later, and Niall’s smile grows into a shit-eating grin. Harry knows that grin. That grin means bad ideas are brewing.

“Harry and I were gonna go to Liam’s and surprise him with some takeout. You should come, too.” Niall says it so casually, as though this isn’t a plot to push the two of them together for even longer.

“Zayn is already there, actually. We were going to go out to eat after his session, but takeout sounds like a much better idea.” Louis is focused on finishing one of the team kits at the moment, so he is unable to see the death glare Harry sends Niall. Thankfully.

“Great. How does Thai sound?”

Louis looks up and smiles wide. “Fucking lovely.”

+++

They stop on their way to Liam’s to pick up their order of Thai food, and the aroma of garlic and curry makes Harry’s stomach rumble. They had spent almost half the day working on leaflets and team kits, and Harry hadn’t realized how hungry he was until now. They enter Liam’s shop with bags of food in their hands (and Harry notices that the crowds from weeks ago have nearly disappeared), the scent of patchouli mingling with the food and overtaking their senses.

“Liam!” Harry calls, at the same time that Louis shouts, “Zayn!”

A resounding thud echoes from upstairs and all three of them glance at each other, barely containing their laughter as they book it up the stairs. But when they barge into the tiny flat above the shop, the scene before them is not what any of them expected.

Liam and Zayn are sitting across from one another, staring deep into each other’s eyes without blinking. There’s a tall, white candle flickering between them and a line of cards flipped upside down in a cross formation. The flat is messier than the last time Harry had been up here. Almost erratic. Bowls are stacked up high in the sink, some still filled with forgotten meals, and there’s a line of empty wine bottles on the countertop. Liam’s clothes are hung over every available surface and it’s difficult to find an open spot on the floor to walk on without tripping. 

The two men don’t even seem to notice their noisy entrance, not a twitch or flinch on their faces. Almost like they’re in a type of trance, lost inside . . . whatever it is that’s happening here. 

Louis is the first to break the awkward silence. “What the fuck is this?”

It’s not the mess, or the cards, or the creepy stare that Liam and Zayn are sharing that he’s focused on, but the haphazard bandages wrapped around Zayn’s knuckles and the dried flecks of blood covering his hands. Harry guesses that his hands hadn’t been wounded when they had driven here together. If he were in Louis’ shoes, he would also be alarmed.

Niall finds a spot to set the food and raises a brow. “So . . . do we just snap them out of it?”

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s a good—”

But Louis is already stomping towards the pair, his hands balled in fists on his hips, and Harry has never seen Louis angry. He doesn’t know how to feel about it. The expression on his face sends a spike of fear through Harry’s stomach and he tries to quell it. But at the same time, there’s a thrill of excitement coursing through his veins, almost like his body is saying _Oh_.

“Zayn Javadd Malik, explain yourself right now.” Louis grips Zayn’s arm so hard that Harry winces.

A moment of awful silence follows before Zayn comes back to himself, blinking slowly up at Louis, his brown eyes flicking between his best friend’s face and the fingers digging into his skin. Louis lets go in a huff and picks up the bandaged hand instead — this time with more care — and holds it between him and Zayn. 

“Explain.”

“Louis—” Liam seems to have come back as well, and is currently putting out the candle’s flame with this forefinger and thumb. 

Zayn cuts him off. “It’s okay, Li.”

“You told me you were done.” Louis spits, his voice raw.

“It’s not what you think.” Zayn’s face is impassive. “Can we talk about it later? I smell food.”

“No. I’m not going to let you keep lying to me.”

“Lou.” 

“Is that what you’ve been doing here with him?” 

“He’s been helping.”

“Bullshit.” Louis shoots, the word breaking off at the end. 

Harry’s eyes catch on the boot still encasing Zayn’s foot, paired with the bandaged knuckles, and the picture it paints isn’t a good one. He doesn’t want to make assumptions, but based on Louis’ resigned reaction at the party and his current anger, it leaves very little room in his mind for much else. He and Niall linger by the door, unsure whether to step in or leave or wait for the storm to pass. The room is so thick with tension that a single match might set them ablaze.

Liam glances over at the two of them. “You brought Thai, yeah? I’m starved.”

Maybe it’s because of his relaxed posture and nonchalant tone paired with his psychic intuition that shocks the two of them out of it, because soon Niall is grabbing the bags of food and smiling wide. “Hell yeah. Thought we would surprise you.”

“That’s so nice. Thank you.” Liam sounds pleased, eyes gleaming.

Louis and Zayn are still having a silent staring contest, neither one willing to back down first, seemingly content to stand there and simmer all night. And Harry gets that feeling again, of doubt growing and spreading throughout his limbs, as he watches them communicate without words. 

He shouldn’t care, shouldn’t dwell too much, shouldn’t be allowing the green monster to control his thoughts or actions. But he can’t ignore it. Not when Louis has never expressed so much passion in front of him before. Harry wants that passion to be directed towards him, no matter how displaced. And he can’t stand to see it focused on another person. 

Jealousy is an ugly beast, he decides.

“Here,” he says, handing Louis’ massaman to him, an attempt to distract him, grab his focus once more. It’s weak and petty, but Harry really can’t control these instincts. Not when it comes to Louis. 

Louis blinks up at him, the dark cloud that’s hanging over his face passing briefly. “Thanks.”

Harry nods and settles on the bed beside Niall, who has started digging at his tom yum soup and chicken fried rice without batting an eye. Harry looks down at the spring rolls and somtam in his lap, his previous hunger now disappeared, but begins to pick at it anyway. He watches Louis from across the room, a thousand questions rolling onto his tongue. Not even the peanut sauce can squash the monster.

Liam settles in beside them at the foot of the bed, his smile widening when he opens the boxes with his name scrawled on top. “Mmm. Pad thai. My favorite.”

“Figures you would be a fan of the most popular dish.” Niall laughs.

“It’s popular for a reason.”

“But does popularity necessarily correlate with quality?” Louis raises an eyebrow as he walks over, having given up on his fight with Zayn, who is close behind with his own food in tow. Harry tries not to stare. Louis’ movements are jerky and upset, but there’s a grin plastered on his face. 

“Hmm. Let’s see: The Beatles, Netflix, corgis, essential oils, _you_.”

Louis blushes and flicks his wrist. “I’ll give you The Beatles and me. But you’re lying to yourself if you think Netflix is better than Hulu.”

Zayn (who has noticeably sat himself quite close to Liam) slurps at his noodles and glances, unconvinced, at Louis. “You watch Peaky Blinders and Twin Peaks all the time.”

“Right,” Louis concedes, not looking in Zayn’s direction. “But I watch more Hulu shows. The Handmaid’s Tale, Top Chef, Cougar Town . . . all quality shows. All on Hulu.”

“I didn’t take you for a Courtney Cox fan.” Harry teases. 

Louis gasps, affronted. “Please, Friends is one of—”

“—my favorite shows.” Harry finishes along with him.

The air stills around them and for a gleaming, perfect moment, Harry swears it’s only him and Louis. Their eyes connect and a spark runs down Harry’s spine, identical to the one he’d had when he heard Louis' laughter for the first time. Similar to all the times they’ve touched. Similar to the one he feels every other time Louis looks at him like that. 

The feeling is difficult to describe. It’s not electricity, or adrenaline, or even attraction. Harry thinks of it almost like a soft sigh being released, subtle and unnoticeable to the untrained eye, but enough to stir the air and cause movement, change. And the more he discovers the small, innocuous parts of Louis, the longer and stronger the sighs become, the more he can feel the change happening inside him, between them, within the room. Everywhere. 

Louis sighs aloud, punctuating Harry’s point. “I’m one-hundred percent Chandler.”

“No way. You’re Monica.” Harry counters. The answer is obvious.

Niall guffaws. “I thought I was Monica!”

“No, you’re Phoebe.”

“Who does that make you?” Louis challenges, lips wet with grease. And it shouldn’t be attractive, but it is. Harry feels like he’s drunk on wine in the restaurant again, desperate to bring his fingers to Louis’ mouth.

“I’m Chandler. Duh.”

The five of them erupt into a heated discussion then, debating about who would be who amongst the Friends group and poking fun at one another, making cases for their arguments, until they all settle on an agreement. Nobody wants to claim Ross. For good reason.

All in all, Harry is euphoric, and the tension in the room seems to have slipped away, temporarily forgotten as they all dig into their dinner and banter with ease. This is something he could get used to. Harry’s somewhat ashamed to admit that his social life has been lackluster for months now, and until a few weeks ago, Niall had been his only friend he remained in constant contact with. And that’s only because they live together.

Somehow, he had allowed the loneliness to creep in and invade every aspect of his life, until Harry had unknowingly pushed everyone else away, resolute to stand on his lonely island of one and stew in his misery. That’s not what he wants anymore.

He doesn’t want to be alone.

[Song: [ Iron Sky by Paolo Nutini ](https://youtu.be/mIdGLWOIF0c)]

His phone starts vibrating in his pocket. Harry licks his fingers clean of peanut sauce, noticing the way that Louis’ eyes fixate on his mouth, before wiping them on a napkin. A smile begins to form when he goes to check who’s calling him, but it just as quickly drops, along with his stomach. 

It’s Noah.

He checks the time. It’s only eight o’clock. Meaning it’s early but Noah is already drunk — drunk enough to call Harry — and will likely keep calling for hours. He can feel his fingers start to tremble, the caller id blurring from the tears forming in his eyes. This can’t be happening. Not here. _Not here._ Not now. Not with people around. Not with _Louis_ right there. 

He stands up abruptly, dropping his phone like a hot coal, and runs a shaky hand through his hair, tripping towards the bathroom and ignoring the concerned voices of his friends. Niall will see the caller ID. Niall will know. But Harry can’t show this part of himself to the rest of them. He doesn’t want them to view him as weak or fragile. Breakable. Broken.

The bathroom door slams shut and Harry rests his back against the solid wood frame, hand clutching at his chest. 

It’s been months since Noah called him last. And he had thought that that was the last time. Harry had made the stupid mistake of answering for once — just to tell Noah to fuck off, stop calling him, that he had moved on and it was unfair to try and drag him back in — and it had only ended in a screaming match. Niall had been forced to tear the phone out of Harry’s clenched hands, dragging him into the bathtub and running a steaming hot bath until Harry could find the air inside his lungs. He still remembers that phone call vividly, can still hear every cutting word and flaming insult that Noah had thrown at him, slashing him open and tearing his insides to shreds. 

Seeing Noah’s name now has brought all of those awful memories rushing back. And Harry knows that the best he can do is weather the oncoming storm threatening to rip his chest apart. But he also needs to go home. He can’t be here. This can’t happen here. 

His knuckles are white as he grips the toilet, dry heaving into the bowl, when there’s a soft knock at the door. 

“Harry?” It’s Niall. Thank fucking god it’s Niall. 

Harry scrambles up from the floor and presses his face against the door. “I need to go.”

“I’ll tell them you’re sick.”

Harry grits his teeth as the tears come gushing out. He rips open the bathroom door and books it for the exit, not daring to look at the others, who are probably gaping right now. He doesn’t care. He needs to leave. Now. He feels like there is a scream in his throat trying to claw its way out, but a blockage of air is stopping it. Suffocating him. Pressing him down further and deeper into the inescapable prison of his own body. 

He doesn’t know how he makes it back to the flat, but Niall is with him, a firm but gentle hand clutching at his bicep and refusing to let go. He knows that Harry needs a stabilizing force, a hand to guide him back from the depths of hell when this is all over. 

They have a system. It started to form after the first time Noah called him. By the fifth time he had an attack, they had it down to a science. Niall had gotten rid of all the hard liquor in the flat, knowing that Harry would rip the place apart looking for any sort of temporary reprieve, would drink himself into oblivion. Harry is craving it now. The sweet escape of alcohol in his veins, numbing him to the pain, bringing his breathing back to a steadier pace. But he can’t. He knows he can’t.

He also knows that Niall has turned his phone off and stashed it somewhere Harry won’t find. Not until he is ready. He also knows that, when the timing is right, Niall will run him a hot bath and bring him a cold glass of water, will sit on the counter and talk to Harry about nothing, just to let him know he’s still there. 

A sharp, aching pain balloons in his chest and Harry collapses onto the floor, crying and shaking and hyperventilating into Niall’s chest, unable to think past the singular thought of I’m dying I’m dying I’m dying I’m dying. He hates that Noah still affects him, can send him spiraling and tumbling into the abyss without ever knowing how he’ll find a way out. Dante’s _Inferno_ has got nothing on this.

“Shh.” Niall is sitting with him on the ground, pressing Harry’s head against his chest and petting his hair. He shushes him and hugs him in a feeble attempt to make the pain go away. And Harry wants to say thank you, I love you, but the words make him choke, caught in his throat on that damn blockage of air and he’s gagging again. 

Niall practically carries him to the toilet, holding his hair back and rubbing at his back and meanwhile, Harry is floating somewhere outside his body, watching it all unfold. As he gags, Harry thinks he doesn’t deserve a friend like Niall. Who constantly takes care of him, who’s always there. No questions asked, no fuss, no judgment. Just always there. 

With each heave, Harry purges a memory. Noah telling him he needed to cut his hair because he didn’t like it long, that he looked too feminine that way, that Noah wouldn’t sleep with him until he did as he was told; Noah leaving after an argument and slamming doors around his flat, because he knew it would heighten Harry’s anxiety; Noah guilting Harry into giving him blowjobs as an apology after fights, gaslighting him into believing he was always the one at fault; Noah giving Harry the silent treatment after he said or did something that Noah didn’t like as a way to punish him, causing Harry to obsess and overthink and overcompensate; Noah drunk and hurling insults at Harry, destroying every ounce of progress he had made in the past two years. 

He retches it all out, his whole body trembling.

“Get it all out.” Niall whispers, hands rubbing circles down his spine.

He doesn’t know how long it lasts, whether it’s minutes or hours, but eventually his body begins to settle, the pain in his chest dulling to a slight throb, his throat hoarse from the retching and crying. There’s a cloud stuffed inside his sinuses, muffling the sounds of Niall whispering soothing words. But it’s over. 

He attempts to steady himself and stand upright, but his arms are too weak. 

“I’ve got you,” Niall says, wrapping his arms around Harry and pulling him up so that his body is leaning against the counter. “I’m going to draw you a bath now, okay?”

Harry only nods. Can’t find the energy to do much else. He watches with lidded eyes as Niall fills the bathtub, sprinkling in spearmint bath salts and bubble bath, the room filling with the strong, calming scent. He closes his eyes and inhales deep, trying to clear his sinuses of mucus, but fails.

He holds out his arms as Niall strips him down to his underwear and then turns around as Harry struggles to take his briefs off. He walks on numb legs into the bath and Niall leaves the bathroom briefly before returning with a tall, cold glass of water and instructing him to drink the entire thing. Harry does as he’s told, wincing at the shock of cold against his tender throat. 

“After last time, you told me you blocked his number.” Niall’s words are still muffled, but Harry can make out what he says. 

He tips his head back against the wall. “I was going to.”

“But you didn’t,” Niall says. And when Harry doesn’t respond, he sighs. “I hate seein’ what he does to you. It hurts me to see you in that much pain.”

Harry swallows hard, flicking his eyes towards Niall. “I’m sorry.”

“You know you don’t have to apologize to me.”

“Okay.”

“I just worry about you. I know he fucked with your head. Maybe you should consider therapy, you know, talk it out with a trained professional.”

“Okay.” Harry blinks, pushing back a fresh wave of hot tears.

Niall leans forward, pressing his thumb to Harry’s cheek and wiping away a stray tear. “And tomorrow, we’re going to block his number.”

“Okay.”

They settle into silence after that, save the slight splash of water as Harry slowly scrubs his body clean of stale sweat and tears and vomit. Niall stays beside him, humming and tapping out a beat on his legs, completely content to wait as Harry takes his time. And Harry feels the guilt settling heavy in his stomach, because they had been having such a nice night before. Up until he had ruined it.

Without looking over, Niall holds out his hand. “You’re thinking again.”

Harry takes it gratefully. “I know.”

+++

Once the water goes cold, Harry climbs out of the tub and changes into a fresh pair of clothes that Niall sets aside for him. All baggy clothes. All for comfort. He smiles slightly when he sees the sweater Niall picked out: an off-white, baggy jumper with an image of a sheep and the words ‘My Life is Crap’ printed across. Niall has always been a fan of irony.

He follows Niall from the bathroom, fully changed, and the two of them head towards the couch, where there is a mound of blankets and pillows already set up. 

“Comedy or action?” Niall asks, laying down on the couch with the remote in one hand, his other arm open and waiting for Harry to curl beneath. 

“Comedy, of course.” Harry responds, smiling slightly as he wraps himself up in blankets and rests his head on Niall’s chest, the other man’s arm wrapping protectively around his waist. 

Niall decides on _We’re the Millers_ and the two settle into their spots on the couch, chatting aimlessly and laughing quietly at the movie until Harry finds himself drifting off, his exhausted body pulling him under until he drifts into a dreamless sleep. 

+++

Harry wakes up to the flat empty and his cell phone sitting on the coffee table, a bright orange sticky note on top that says, _I blocked his number for you. You’ll thank me later._

His hand is shaking as he picks up his phone, but when he turns it on, there’s no notifications, no missed calls, no new text messages from Noah. He breathes a sigh of relief, because he knows that Niall went through and deleted whatever traces he had left behind the night before. And knowing that his number was finally blocked leaves Harry feeling lighter than he has in a long, long time. Almost free.

There are, however, a number of texts from Liam and Louis, and even one from Zayn. And then another one from a newly created group text message between all five of them, with one message from Niall, which has nothing more than a sleeping emoji in it. He checks Liam’s and Zayn’s texts first, and they read about the same, sending him well wishes and hoping he will get better soon, though there’s one from Liam that has his stomach twisting:

_Only the strongest can weather the oncoming storm._

He sighs to himself and decides to ignore the feeling of doom that the cryptic message stirs inside him. Instead he moves onto Louis’ texts, which are fewer than he thought, but still make his heart thump unevenly:

_Im sorry that you arent feeling well :(_

_Let me know if you need anything_

_I’ll be there_

Harry bites his lip, staring at the screen as the gears in his mind begin to turn. Before he can fully lose himself to his thoughts, Harry sends a brief response:

_Thank you_

It doesn’t convey nearly as much as he wants it to, but he hopes Louis understands. Thank you for being patient with me. Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for being you. There are so many words floating inside his head, and he wishes he could say them all. Harry never used to be so incapable of sharing his thoughts and feelings with the world. But that was then. This is now.

Almost instantly, Louis texts him back:

_Of course xx_

_Are you feeling better?_

Does he feel better? Harry isn’t sure. On the one hand, his body is weary and his head is throbbing; he can hardly move his limbs without the soreness making him wince. But on the other hand, the pressure has lifted off his chest and his breath is coming easier for the first time in ages.

_Getting there.._

It’s as honest as he can be without having to explain himself. And that will have to do for now.

_Good. I was worried_

He’s just reading Louis’ new text when the door to the flat opens, Niall’s signature whistle filling the space. Harry sits up on the couch and peers over the edge, watching as Niall enters the room, a coffee carrier in one hand and a bag of food in the other. When Niall sees that Harry is awake, he smiles wide.

“I figured we could stuff our faces today and watch movies. I already called your boss. He knows you’re not comin’ in.”

Harry’s chest tightens. “You don’t have to—”

“Spend the day with my best friend? Yeah, I do.”

A tidal wave of gratitude washes over Harry, and he has the sudden urge to cry, but instead he points to the bag in Niall’s hand. “What’d you get?”

Niall walks over to the couch, squeezing in easily at Harry’s side. “Your favorite.”

The smell hits him before the sight as Harry rips open the bag, his mouth watering from the dozen or so cheese croissants sitting at the bottom. He looks up at Niall with watery eyes. “I love you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Love you too.” Niall laughs. 

They settle into the couch together, Harry’s shoulder pressed against Niall’s, while they flip through reruns on the television. He sips slowly at his chamomile tea (he can’t have caffeine just yet — Niall’s rule) and nibbles at his fourth cheese croissant, sighing in contentment. Despite the unfortunate circumstances, Harry is happy to sit here with Niall on the couch and get sucked into a TV series or a movie marathon for a couple hours. Let go of everything else for a bit. 

He has almost settled completely, the weariness of the past day still there but quieted to a slight lethargy, when his phone begins buzzing. Harry instinctively flinches at the sound, almost spilling his tea. Niall snatches the phone off the coffee table before Harry can see the caller ID.

His brain knows it isn’t Noah, but his body doesn’t.

“It’s Louis,” Niall says, quirking an eyebrow at Harry, asking permission to answer.

Harry nods mutely, too busy trying to calm his heartbeat to say anything.

“Hey, Lou.” Niall pauses the movie. “Harry is resting right now.”

There’s a beat of silence as Niall listens to whatever Louis is saying. And then, “It’s not a good time. He’ll text or call when he’s up for it.”

Silence.

“Okay, I’ll pass on the message.”

“What did he say?” Harry trains his eyes on the paused screen, where Meryl Streep is currently glaring, unimpressed, at Anne Hathaway. He wishes his problems were as simple as Anne’s. At least, if that were the case, all of them would magically disappear in the span of a couple hours, and he could start living his best life. But the crushing truth about cinema is that it carries no reflection of reality. Instead, Harry has to take the long way around.

“He wanted to know if he could stop by, but I said it wasn’t a good time. And then he said he hopes you recover soon.” Niall taps his fingers against the Play button, but doesn’t press it, watching Harry with careful eyes.

Harry swallows. “What did you tell the others?”

“That you were having stomach issues.” Niall shrugs. “Though Liam’s got his psychic mumbo jumbo so I don’t know if he bought it, and Louis might’ve seen your phone, since he was looking at you when you dropped it. I couldn’t pick it up fast enough.”

“Okay.” 

There’s nothing to be done if Louis saw the caller ID. Harry had never told him the name of his ex, but based on Harry’s reaction to the call, it wouldn't be difficult to put two-and-two together. He wondered what Louis thought of him now, if his opinions had been altered at all after the events of yesterday. If he still liked Harry. Or if he finally saw him as he truly was: damaged goods.

They are ridiculous thoughts, because Louis is still texting and calling him, so of course he still wants to be friends. He had been worried — he said so himself. But the thoughts gnaw away at Harry and he finds himself tugging at the sleeves of his sweater.

“Let’s finish the movie, yeah?” Niall presses Play again, handing Harry another cheese croissant as a way for him to keep his hands and mouth occupied. Something tangible to keep the nerves at bay. He takes it slowly, pulling the pastry apart and stuffing it past his lips, chewing but not really tasting. 

He tries to focus on Anne Hathaway, who’s currently acting out one of the more iconic scenes of the movie (“Can you spell Gabbana for me?”), but his mind is buzzing. There is an endless stream of unwelcome thoughts and questions and Harry wants nothing more than to make it stop. He craves the quiet. But maybe he’s never experienced a quiet mind. So how could he crave something he has never had?

“Do you think . . .” Harry trails off, lips pursed.

“Go on.”

“Do you think you could help me look into some therapists? I wanna try it.”

Niall smiles wide at that, eyes crinkling at the edges as he throws an arm around Harry’s shoulders. “Of course. Whatever you want.”

Harry nods. “I think it’ll be good for me.”

And it _will_ be good for him, he thinks. It will be good to have someone to talk to who is fully trained and equipped to guide him through the dark recesses of his mind. It will be good to speak everything out into the open, to verbalize his trauma and work through it all. It will be good to no longer lean on Niall, who never complains, but Harry knows must be exhausted from picking up the pieces.

He really doesn’t know why it’s taken him this long to make the decision, if he’s honest. Maybe it was his stubbornness. Or his masochism. But it’s a step in the right direction.

Things will get better. They have to.

+++

Song: [Rival by Ruelle](https://youtu.be/o87vay63FZ0)

Harry flips through the television guide, scanning the never-ending list for something light-hearted to watch. To put him in a better mood. It’s becoming a common occurrence — this sinking hole in his chest. And before he can meet with his new therapist, Brenda, he doesn’t have the tools to claw his own way out. Meanwhile the hole grows bigger and he sinks deeper.

It’s the last practice before the charity match next Thursday, and Harry hadn’t been able to stomach the thought of going. So he didn’t. Instead, when prompted by Niall, he had thrown himself into the couch cushions with a resigned sigh and shook his head. No, he wasn’t up for it. No, he wasn’t avoiding his problems. Yes, he would like Italian for dinner. 

And Niall had left, leaving Harry with nothing but the bitterness of his own mind and an empty, too-big flat. He had tried everything to keep himself occupied. Had tried wanking, baking a batch of chocolate chip cookies, working on his latest article, and now, getting lost in the boundless void of daytime television. But the hole was still there, no matter what he did.

The worst bit is that Louis won’t stop texting and calling him, reaching out to make sure Harry is alright, asking if he’s feeling better, wondering when he wants to catch up. It hasn’t even been a week since the Incident, yet Louis is relentless. It’s a miracle that Harry has been able to avoid him, because he knows that Louis has been coming to town more often with Zayn, accompanying him to his sessions with Liam (which Harry chalks up to the fact that last time, Zayn had been bleeding, and Louis wants to keep an eye out for him. Not because he wants to see Harry). He’s not intentionally avoiding Louis — not after what happened last time — but he can’t see him right now. The most he can do is respond to his texts, and sometimes his phone calls. 

Because he can’t let Louis go. And he’s not sure he wants to.

It’s fucking selfish and he knows it. He knows that he wants Louis and that Louis wants him — it’s clear as day, he’s not an idiot — but he also knows that he can’t do anything about it. Not while he’s like this. All muddled up inside. Afraid and confused and fighting the clouds of darkness that hang overhead. That’s not fair for anyone.

There’s nothing good on the television, so Harry turns it off, waiting until the faint hum of electricity dies and he’s left in complete silence. Normally, Harry couldn’t wait for moments of solitude during the day, those few brief minutes or (if he was lucky) hours where he could escape from the monotony of social niceties and the interminable background noise of everyday life.

But not when he’s feeling like this. 

Sighing, he pulls himself off of the couch and stretches, wincing at the cracking in his limbs, and walks towards the kitchen to make a cup of tea. He’s just about to put the kettle on the stove when a soft, hesitant knock sounds at the front door. 

There are very few people who it could be, and Harry is less surprised than he ought to be when he opens the door to see Louis standing there, two paper cups of coffee in his hand. 

Before a word can be spoken, Louis shoves one of the coffees in Harry’s face. “I brought you a coffee. Two milks, yeah?”

Harry blinks, his arm instinctively reaching out for it. “Yeah.”

Louis steps into the flat and around Harry’s taller frame, shrugging his bright red training jacket off and turning to smile at Harry. “Aren’t you going to give me a tour? I never got one before.”

“Uh, sure.”

This all happens within seconds. And Harry’s having one of those moments where his brain can’t quite catch up with his body. He moves slowly throughout the flat with Louis right on his heels. He enters each room and points out things worth noting, even though it isn’t much. But Louis nods and smiles and ‘ahhs’ and ‘oohs’ at the right times. It’s all very bizarre.

And he tries not to think about the fact that Louis is here at all, or why. Or the fact that Louis and him are alone, or that he’s wearing nothing but a flimsy white tee and a pair of black joggers and no pants underneath. He definitely doesn’t think about it when they reach his bedroom last, and Louis walks inside while Harry stands, statuesque, by the door. 

“So . . . this is your room.” Louis surveys the area until his eyes catch on the poster beside Harry’s bed, along with the newspaper clippings about Louis taped around it. “I’m flattered.”

Harry stumbles over his own feet to stand in front of it, a blush covering his chest and neck. “I promise I’m not a creep or a stalker.”

“Just a HUGE fan?” 

“Right.”

Louis’ eyes gleam as he steps around the bed, facing the wall containing all of Harry’s newspaper clippings of his own work. “Huge fan of yourself, too?”

Harry’s blush deepens. “I like to remember what I’ve written.”

“Hmm.” Louis fingers at the clipping of their interview, tracing the headline carefully. “Your pieces are well done. Don’t know if I told you before.”

“Thank you.”

“Why newspaper print, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“You mean instead of working digitally?”

“Obviously.”

“I don’t know. I suppose working with a physical newspaper, the stories you put out matter more. They need to mean something if you’re going to dedicate space, you know. Online you can post any story, regardless of how factual or important. It begins to lose meaning.”

“So you’re a true journalist.”

“I think there are many schools of journalism. I prefer old-school.”

Louis nods as though this makes perfect sense to him. “I hate the online buggers, anyhow. Always after a juicy story. They love the drama.”

“I imagine that can get annoying.”

Louis half-laughs, a smile forming but not quite reaching his eyes. “Oh, the press loves me.”

Harry tries not to think about himself or how he might be implicated in that statement.

“I’ve read a lot of nice stuff on you.” He tries.

Louis rolls his eyes. “Yeah, after I gained their respect. Before I ever played a game, I got roasted and ripped to shreds. Didn’t make me too fond of journalists.”

“Ah.”

“I mean — that’s not to say — I just meant—” Louis stutters, his face dusting in a beautiful shade of rose. 

“Kidding.” Harry smirks.

And then Louis laughs, and Harry swears that the hole inside his chest is filled — only a tiny bit, a fraction of a fraction. But it still fills him up. Lifts him a little bit higher towards the sun.

He watches as Louis traces his fingers lightly across the newspaper clippings, along the top of Harry’s dresser and toys with his display of pearl necklaces; he watches Louis flip through the pages of the book Harry is currently reading, _A Little Life_ , and then set it back down carefully, right back in its place; he watches the sunlight filter through his pastel pink curtains and fall lightly on Louis’ face, accentuating the pink undertone of his skin and making him appear younger.

It’s almost as though Louis is trying to learn about Harry, gain better clarity about who he is, without either of them having to say a word.

The thought makes Harry lose his balance.

“Why did you come?” He asks, unable to stand the quiet any longer.

Louis turns to face him. “I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“You could’ve texted, or called.”

Louis purses his lips. “I have been. You skipped practice.”

“I wasn’t feeling up for it.”

“I wanted to see you.” Louis crosses his arms, and Harry notices how he picks at the yellow sleeve of his baseball tee. He wonders if Louis needs touch in order to steady his nerves as well. Harry has the urge to reach out, maybe hold his hand, support him in whatever way he needs.

Instead, he stays where he is. 

“I’m right here.”

“Are you avoiding me again?”

“No.”

Louis takes a step closer, and Harry realizes how he’s cornered himself in, his back still blocking the Louis Tomlinson™ poster from view. “Seems like it.”

“I’m avoiding everyone.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

Louis snorts. “Eloquently said.”

“Sorry.” He doesn’t really feel like explaining himself. And he doesn’t owe anyone an explanation. Harry can feel the irritation building up in his chest, replacing the slight giddiness he’d initially felt upon seeing Louis.

“I don’t mean to pry, but—” 

“Then don’t.” 

“Harry—” An argument is building up in his throat, and Harry swears he can see it momentarily — the passion building in his eyes — and he’s ashamed to admit that it goes straight to his groin, the heat pooling in his stomach. But then, a ringtone blares out, none other than Lil Nas X’s “Old Town Road,” and Louis frowns. He pulls his phone from his pocket and the frown deepens; Harry is close enough to see the familiar outline of Zayn’s laughing face on the screen. 

“You should get that.”

Louis is torn, staring between Zayn’s photo on the screen and Harry’s face. “Can we—”

“I’m fine, Louis. Really. Answer your phone.”

“Don’t move,” Louis says, as though Harry has anywhere else to go. This being his house and all. 

Louis leaves the room, and as soon as the door clicks shut, Harry allows his body to relax, his head hitting the wall a little too hard. He grits his teeth and tries to keep his breathing steady. He doesn’t know why Louis has to be so persistent, so intent on keeping Harry around, when Harry is trying so hard to keep him at an arm’s length. Maybe even farther than that. 

And he really can’t deal with Louis being in his room for any longer than he already has been.

Harry comes out just as Louis is hanging up, a slight furrow between his brows. 

“Everything alright?” Harry asks, trying for an airy tone.

Louis turns and winces. “Yeah, sort of. I gotta pick up Zayn and head back to Donny.”

“Okay. Drive safe.”

There’s a brief flicker of hurt on Louis’ face, almost as though he expected Harry to ask him to stay, or wanted him to, at least. His eyes are searching, and when he doesn’t seem to find what he’s looking for, Louis nods. “Alright, then. Thanks.”

He rushes towards the door, almost forgetting his training jacket, before he backtracks, not daring to look Harry’s direction, and then he’s leaving the flat almost as quickly as he entered.

The front door clicks shut, punctuating the disconsolate quiet left behind. The moments stretch on, with nothing but the sound of Harry’s erratic heartbeat and uneven breathing in his ears as he stands in the middle of the hallway. He moves on numb legs towards the kettle, fills it up with fresh water, and sets it on the stove. He waits and waits and waits. He seems to be doing that a lot these days. Waiting for the broken pieces to mend themselves. Waiting for the pain to disappear. Waiting for the right timing.

But what if the timing is never right? What if the pain never disappears?

Here he stands, on his island, shooting flares at every rescue ship that sails by and watching them burn. The kettle screams at him, shooting steam in the air. Hot, blistering steam. He removes the kettle from the stove, the screams replaced with a firm, unrelenting silence. Leaving him alone again.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Charity match happens. Harry and Louis fight ... again.

The sky is bitter and grey with flurries of snow starting to drift down around them. Harry can’t recall when it transitioned from the dusk of fall to the dawn of winter, but he had woken up this morning with a Baltic chill frosting the tips of his toes and icing his nose. He had also woken up to Niall crashing into his chest, a ball of elation and nerves, words blurring together as his Irish accent grew too thick for Harry to understand. Because today is the day.

Harry stands on the crowded footy pitch with his hands shoved into his coat pockets. The turnout for the Doncaster Rovers v. Holmes Chapel Hurricanes charity match is larger than Niall or Harry could have ever hoped for. There’s six-hundred seats available on pitch, and even then, the crowd begins to pour out of the stands and into the sidelines, everyone standing around in their hats and scarves and holding plastic cups of beer or hot chocolate to their lips, waiting for the game to begin. Those who weren’t lucky or early enough to get a seat are off to the side near the fences, their fingers clawing at the holes and noses pressed up against the wire. 

And that isn’t even including the sheer volume of people who are live streaming the match from the comfort of their own homes. (When Niall had seen the final numbers, he nearly cried.)

Harry hadn’t been given the chance to sulk too much in the past week, or this morning, thanks to Niall and his never-ending list of things to do. And Harry had grabbed at every opportunity that was thrown at him to keep busy. But now that the day is here, and Harry is seeing Louis step onto the field for the first time since last week, everything comes rushing back and his breath catches in his throat. 

The way that they had left things after Louis had come to the flat doesn’t sit right with Harry. He had debated being the first one to text Louis to smooth things over, but he also knows that some distance is for the best. He can’t, in good conscience, drag Louis down into the mess that is his mind. It’s better to let go now, before any real damage can be done between them.

But that doesn't mean it hurts any less.

“Harry, love!” He turns and sees his mum and Gemma elbowing their way through the crowd, trying but failing to make their way to him. “Help, please!”

Almost instinctively, Harry can sense a pair of eyes burning into the back of his neck, and when he whips his head around, he makes eye contact with Louis from across the field. The shared look is fleeting, and it’s gone as soon as it begins, but there’s an iron hot rod burning in Harry’s stomach regardless.

“Harry!” His mum calls again, annoyed.

“Sorry, mum.” He responds, running over to the pair of them and pulling on their hands. He has to push away a rather burly bloke, who seems about ready to fight him until he holds up his Staff card, and the man relents. 

“Who knew it would be so crowded?” Gemma puckers her cherry red lips.

“Aww, Gem. Do you have so little faith in me?” Niall appears from the direction of the announcer’s stand with his arms wide open, enveloping Gemma in a tight hug. He’s sporting a rainbow tie-dyed t-shirt with both team’s names scrawled across the chest in white script and the equality symbol tucked neatly underneath.

Gemma scoffs but returns the hug fiercely. “Of course not. You’re the best in the biz.”

“Flattery won’t save you. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about your snub on my decorations for last year’s Moonwalk.”

As Gemma opens her mouth to argue, Anne chooses that moment to step in. “Niall, dear. How are you?”

“Flying high, Anne. The donations are lookin’ incredible. Thanks for contributing, by the way.” He leans in to kiss her cheek. 

“It’s a wonderful cause.” She smiles, directing her attention towards Harry. “So, where’s Louis? Can I meet him yet?”

Harry’s smile freezes. “Er, he’s about to play.”

“No. He’s right there.” Gemma points a manicured finger towards the benches closest to them, and Harry’s stomach sinks. 

There is only a couple yards between them, but it might as well be an ocean.

“Doesn’t mean he isn’t busy.”

“Oi! Tommo!” Niall calls, apparently joining in on the ‘torture Harry’ squad, as he waves Louis over. Louis pauses for a moment, looking between each of their faces, his confusion apparent before it’s quickly masked. 

He runs over to the group and returns Niall’s fist bump cautiously. “How’s it going, Ni?”

Niall smiles. “Amazing as always. I have some people I’d like you to meet.” He gestures to Anne and Gemma, who are both wearing identical grins. Harry can’t tell if it’s from excitement at meeting a celebrity or from all of the shit they’re about to give Harry. He doesn’t want to know.

“Hi, I’m Gemma Styles.” His sister shoots out her hand. 

Louis’ eyes widen, flicking between Gemma and Anne and then, finally, towards Harry. His mouth forms a small O shape, and Harry is going to die from embarrassment.

But Louis is much quicker to recover his wits. “I can see the family resemblance. Pleasure to meet you.”

“I’m Harry’s mum. Anne.” His mum supplies, skipping the handshake and going straight for a bear hug, enveloping Louis against her chest and pushing the air out from his lungs.

“Mmph. Great hugs run in the family, too, it seems,” Louis says, a blush covering his neck and cheeks. 

But Anne only laughs. “We’re a bunch of huggers. Get used to it.”

God. Oh god. Harry wants to die. Right then, right there.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Louis says.

The moment passes into awkward territory, with Louis refusing to meet Harry’s eye while Gemma, Anne, and Niall stand there, watching the pair of them with frozen smiles. Niall already knows about his and Louis’ tense encounter, but Harry hadn’t gotten around to telling his mum and sister that he and Louis aren’t on the best terms right now. 

“You must come over for supper sometime.” Anne suggests. “I make a mean Sunday roast.”

Louis’ gaze flickers to Harry, as though asking him for help. Harry only shrugs.

“Sometime, maybe.” Louis supplies, still searching Harry’s face.

One of the teens from the LGBT club comes over then — thankfully — and catches Louis’ attention, his smile softening. She’s dressed entirely in red and white and she’s looking up at Louis’ face as though he’s the sun and she’s a sunflower thriving under his glow. 

Louis steps forward with his arms open. “Hello, sweetheart. What can I do for you?”

The teen returns his smile, her eyes wide and adoring. “Can you sign this, please?”

She holds a poster out in one hand and a sharpie in the other, fingers trembling — from cold or nerves or both, Harry can’t quite tell — and Louis beams at her. “Of course, love. What’s your name?”

“Florence.”

“Ah, what a beautiful name.” He comments, pressing the poster against his thigh and scribbling his signature across. He hands the poster back to her with a smile. “There you are.”

She squeals a bit before snapping her lips shut. “Thank you so much.”

Louis turns around as she rushes away, and Harry watches his cheeks redden when he sees that Harry and the others are staring at him. It’s not that Harry had forgotten that Louis was famous; he had simply begun to lose that feeling of being starstruck around him. Though he can imagine that his face looked much like that teen’s when they first met. 

The memory makes him blush.

“I should’ve sold tickets for autographs,” Niall says, almost to himself.

Louis laughs. “Maybe next time.”

A teammate calls to Louis from across the field and he looks over his shoulder, holding his hand up briefly before looking back towards Anne and Gemma. “It was lovely to meet you both.”

And then he’s running, out towards the pitch, and the iron hot rod in Harry’s stomach grows unbearable. He can’t stand the thought of Louis playing without acknowledging him. He can’t. 

“Louis!” He calls, jogging to catch up.

Louis pauses and turns slowly. “Yeah?”

Harry stops when there is barely any space between them. He takes a step closer. “Good luck.”

Without thinking too much about it, Harry wraps his arms around Louis’ shoulders and rests his cheek against his temple. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe when Louis returns the hug, albeit hesitantly. They stand like that, together, near the sidelines, with hundreds of people looking on — but Harry can’t care about that right now. He squeezes tighter. 

“You’re gonna smash it.” He steps away then, returning his hands into the pocket of his sweatshirt and biting his lip. 

“Thanks.” Louis looks a bit dazed, but happy. He returns Harry’s stare for a moment longer before finally turning on his heel, running towards the center of the field, where his team is waiting, the game getting ready to begin.

Harry’s mum comes up beside him and wraps her arm around his shoulders. “You two will get there. Don’t worry.”

And Harry doesn’t have the energy to explain to her all the ways in which she’s wrong. But he nods anyways. In another world, in an alternate universe, where Harry wasn’t broken inside and perhaps a bit more optimistic, things might work out. If Harry had more courage in that world. Perhaps. Alas, this world is not that one.

“Maybe,” he says. Not really believing it.

+++

Harry has watched Louis play in person multiple times now, but it still blows his mind every time. His number twenty-eight is a blur of red on the field, and Harry can hardly keep up with it. He alternates between watching Louis and watching the teens watching Louis. Every time he steals the ball or makes a good pass, the teens gasp and cheer with wide eyes. If it was a contest between Harry and the teens about who was more infatuated with Louis Tomlinson . . . it would be a close call. 

And then there’s Niall, running up and down the sidelines as he cheers on both teams and advertises the match’s merch, collecting cash and throwing shirts into the crowd. The entire atmosphere is buzzing with life. So much is happening at once that Harry begins to lose track.

The actual match itself is an absolute haze. Harry doesn’t remember much other than the snow falling down in heavier clumps and the wind pulling at the curls peeking out from his green beanie; the look on the teens’ faces as they watched Louis fly back and forth on the pitch with impossible speed; the growing chill in the air as the clouds grew heavier overhead; the scream of fans with each goal or steal the Rovers made, erupting into chants and claps; the last few minutes of the game, where the Hurricanes fought back three times harder, trying to gain one last point, desperate to catch up to the Rovers’ lead; and the whirlwind of the the Rovers winning, the team huddling together and pumping their fists in the air, the crowd losing their minds in a fit of cheers, and Louis Tomlinson running towards the sidelines, towards Harry — or where Harry had assumed he was running — and Harry catching him in his arms and spinning him in a circle, pressing a warm kiss to his cheek without thinking, because Louis won and his face was spotted red and Harry wanted nothing more than to do it in that moment.

It all happens too fast for Harry to think or to comprehend and the high of the win is much stronger than any sort of self control Harry may have. He hardly recalls much after that beyond the look of shock in Louis’ eyes when Harry releases him to the ground, his hands clutching at Harry’s shoulders to steady himself briefly, before he’s running in a daze towards the rest of his team. But in the moments afterwards, as the high begins to come down, so does Harry’s smile. He watches Louis be carried by his teammates, an ecstatic grin suspended into place, and tries to mentally will him to look over. But he doesn’t. 

He doesn’t look at Harry at all. 

+++

Song: [ Life is a Game of Changing by DMA’s ](https://youtu.be/xBVKvJFE3TY)

The afterparty is filled with more booze and bodies than last time. And unlike before, Harry is drinking. A lot. He’s already on his fourth tequila sour and he’s floating through the crowd, sucking on his tiny straw like it’s a lifeline. He can’t seem to find Niall. He’s alone, looking for any familiar face to focus on, but he’s stuck in a sea of strangers. Which, this is _his_ hometown. Why are there so many strangers? Where did they all come from?

Holmes Chapel’s one and only downtown pub is filled to maximum capacity and then some, the party expanding from the center of the dance floor and pushing out the door, leaking into the streets as the teams and fans brave the cold in favor of a celebration. Harry doesn’t see a point in celebrating, not when his heart is hollow in his chest. Not when there’s really not much to celebrate at all. But he needed the reprieve, the distraction. The haze of alcohol mixed with the heavy bass and the pulsing lights is enough to pull his mind away from the otherwise dark thoughts lurking.

There are a few Rovers partying beside him, and they try to beckon him over to join the group, but he waves them off. Any other time, partying with the Rovers would be a dream. Now it would be a penance. 

He finds Zayn and Liam in the karaoke corner of the pub, happily drunk and crooning a Whitney Houston song to one another. Zayn has changed his hair yet again, this time dyeing his entire head platinum blond and shaving the sides to a fade. Harry watches Liam hold Zayn’s chin in his hand, watches as Zayn practically preens under the attention, and he has to turn away. He can’t stand to look at them right now, not when his own heart is being eaten away by an expanding black hole. He hasn’t seen Louis since the accidental cheek kiss on the pitch, and he doesn’t know whether he even wants to see Louis. But the hole continues to grow, no matter how much he tries to fill it with alcohol.

Where the fuck is Niall?

His question is answered a little while later when he spots his friend leaning against the bar, looking at a redhead with an awe and adoration Harry’s never seen in him before. But he’s too drunk to think about it or care, and he’s about to interrupt their intense conversation when a warm hand grabs at his bicep. And Harry is unsteady enough to fall over a bit at the pull, collapsing straight into the person’s arms, mumbling ‘Oops’ and giggling to himself before he struggles to steady his body. The other person helps him stand and he turns around to say thank you, but the words die as soon as he sees who it is.

“Oh.” He breathes.

“Hi.” Louis is looking at him and his lips are a bright pink and his eyes are a deep, frothing blue and his smile is soft, almost pillowlike. And Harry is seeing two of him, maybe four, dancing circles around his head. 

He stares for too long, blinking stupidly, until Louis’ hand squeezes his arm and he’s pulled back down to earth. “Hiii.”

“Wanna dance?” Louis' lips press to his ear, his hot breath chasing the sweat dripping down Harry’s neck. And Harry’s got déjà vu, his mind racing backwards in time and recalling the last time they danced together. The memory has his heart racing faster than it already is.

Without saying a word, Harry grabs Louis’ wrist and drags him towards the dance floor, enjoying the quick flutter of Louis’ heartbeat beneath his fingertips and his raucous laugh tinkling the air. 

Unlike the last time they danced together, Louis doesn’t hold back. He presses his bum up against Harry’s pelvis, grinding backwards and controlling the push and pull of the dance, his arms wrapped around Harry’s hips to keep him in place. The music has them hypnotized, too lost in their drunken daze to care about the tension between them. All that’s left is electricity, burning through the wires and setting them both aflame. Harry is burning with desire, burning for Louis’ touch, burning burning burning. And he knows Louis feels it, too. 

Everything about Louis is intoxicating: from the dip in his spine to the roundness of his ass to the length of his neck; the way his hair stands up straight when he’s drunk and dancing; the various shades of pink and blue that color his face and eyes at different times of the day. Like the wine-stained lips and dark, vibrant cerulean in the evening. Or the rosy blush and the light, airy blue in the sunlight. Any time of day, in any state of mind, Louis is an addictive substance, and Harry wants to drink him down until the bottle’s empty.

He brings his lips to Louis’ ear, smiling when he senses Louis’ body shudder beneath him. “You look great.”

Louis turns his head and eyes him, a slight smirk on his lips (which are now slightly bitten red). “I know.”

Louis swivels his body then, replacing his bum with his groin and pressing into Harry, and Harry can’t help but gasp at the feel of Louis against him. For a moment he sees stars, because Louis is slightly hard and his cheek is resting against Harry’s as they dance front-to-front, completely neglecting any thoughts of public decency as they grind into one another. He doesn’t know what he’s doing or why he’s allowing this to happen but it feels so good that Harry can’t stop. He’s lost himself in Louis’ eyes and lips and hair and smile, his hands wrapping around to cup his ass and keep him close. 

“You’ve been ignoring me,” he says.

Louis’ lips brush the shell of his ear. “Doesn’t feel good, does it?” 

“But you still asked me to dance.” 

“You kissed my cheek.” Louis counters. “What was that about?”

“I have a cheek fetish, of course.” To emphasize his point, Harry palms Lous’ ass even harder.

“Should I be afraid?” Louis’ surprised laugh is like music to him — much better than any song he’s ever heard before. 

“Yes.”

Louis throws his head back in laughter and Harry’s eyes zero in on his neck. He’s drunk enough on tequila and the dance to lean forward and scrape his teeth against the pulsing vein along Louis’ throat. 

The hands around his neck tighten and Louis gasps. “A neck fetish, too?”

Harry hums. “Maybe just a Louis fetish.”

He feels Louis’ smile press against the side of his face as they continue to dance in silence. Lost to the music, to each other, shaping into a single entity until Harry can’t tell which limbs are his and which ones aren’t. Harry loses himself in every part of Louis: the way he breathes, the flutter of his eyes when he blinks, the curl of his fingers around Harry’s shoulders.

But the ecstasy slips away just as quickly as it came when Louis whispers in Harry’s ear: 

“I really like you.”

And thank god the music is blaring. Harry pretends he doesn’t hear him, instead opting to press his nose against Louis’ damp neck and inhale deep, savoring the salty sweet perfume of his skin.

Louis won’t let it go. He pulls back to look at Harry with black eyes. “Did you hear me?”

Harry swallows and shakes his head. He wants to say no. Please don’t do this. Don’t break the spell. Don’t ruin it. But Louis, ever the persistent one, takes hold of Harry’s wrist and leads him through the throng of dancers, and Harry is too drunk to fight against it. He allows himself to be dragged out of the pub and outside, where the snow has accumulated into inches and the cold air hits him like a slap to the face. 

They lean against the brick wall of the bar as Louis pulls out a pack of cigarettes and places one between his lips, offering another to Harry before putting it away. The two of them light up and Harry sucks in a long puff of nicotine, struggling to hold back a cough, exhaling slowly. He doesn’t smoke a lot, but he needs something to do with his hands. He can’t handle the way that Louis is looking at him right now, like he’s ready to jump into the unknown, while Harry . . . isn’t.

There are a few minutes of blessed silence, and Harry rests his head against the wall and watches the flurries fall down around him. He’s always loved snow and the tranquility that moves in with it. But tonight is too quiet. He craves the thumping bass and the pulsing lights of the pub; out here, he is too exposed, his ruddy face cast in a yellow spotlight from the streetlamps. 

“I said that I like you,” Louis says, turning and watching Harry carefully. “And I would really like to keep seeing you.”

And there it is, laid out bare between them. The spell broken. 

Harry closes his eyes and tries to focus on breathing. “‘M not sure that’s a good idea.”

Louis rolls his eyes and takes a long drag of his cigarette. “And why is that?”

“You don’t want me, Lou.”

“How do you know what I want?”

Harry shakes his head. “You don’t _know_ me. I’m fucked up, okay?”

“Everyone’s a little fucked up, Harry.”

“You’re better off having me as a friend.” The tequila is beginning to wear off, and Harry is desperate for another drink. He can’t handle this conversation sober.

“I know you like me, too.” There it is again. An almost pleading tone in Louis’ voice.

“Doesn’t matter.”

Those glassy blue eyes go stone cold, clearing momentarily as he spits. “Why are you so adamant to act like some brooding character in a fucking book?”

“Why are you so obsessed?” 

Louis’ mouth drops. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

“If I’m obsessed, why do you want me?”

“Why can’t you just be honest with me?”

They stare at each other for a while — Harry doesn’t know how long, but it stretches on into forever. Stars are dying and the universe is expanding, has been for billions of years, but that stretch of time is nothing in comparison. Their cigarettes hang useless between their fingers. The pub entrance opens and closes, the music and laughter calling to Harry like a siren at sea. But he keeps his feet firmly planted, his stubbornness (and a little bit of drunken anger) demanding that he stand his ground. He knows he’s the one in the wrong here. It doesn’t help.

“You know, I’ve been trying to figure you out. I wanted to get to know you. All of you. But you won’t let me. I know you’ve been hurt, Harry, but that’s no fucking excuse to yank me around like this. One minute you’re hot, the next you’re cold. I don’t _get_ you.” There are tears pricking at Louis’ eyes and he wipes them away hastily, turning towards the street as he takes another drag of his cigarette.

Harry crumples a little at that. “Louis—” 

“Just go.”

He doesn’t look at Harry again, instead resolute to stand in stony silence and suck on his cigarette for dear life, his cheeks hollowing out around the filter. Harry watches, jaw working, until he can find the correct muscles. He throws his own cigarette on the concrete and grinds it beneath his shoe, glancing once more at Louis before shoving his hands in his pockets and walking away. He tries not to focus on the choked sob coming from behind him. Places one foot in front of the other. All the way to the liquor store. Buys a bottle of tequila. Walks away. Until he finds his way home.

He’s had many nights like this before. Nights where he can’t feel his face and the anger comes crawling up and he wallows in his own misery. Nights, in the past, that had been punctuated by bitter arguments with Noah and the empty feeling in Harry’s chest after they made up through hollow, emotionless sex. Nights where he curls up inside himself and cradles the broken pieces, the urge to drink himself into a stupor becoming impossibly strong.

The flat is empty and dark when he steps under the threshold — of course it is, Niall is still out enjoying himself, probably unaware of Harry’s absence — and Harry blinks a couple times, attempting to adjust. He unscrews the cap of the tequila bottle and takes a long swig as he stumbles through the flat, not even bothering to turn on the lights. He wants the darkness to envelop him. He wants his surroundings to mirror the way he feels inside. 

He coughs at the burning alcohol, downing half of the bottle as quick as he can and collapsing into his mattress. The ceiling above him is spinning and the world feels off-kilter. Slightly skewed to the right. His argument with Louis blurs and melds together in his brain until the words sound strange to his ears, and Harry can’t help but giggle, the manic sound filling his bedroom.

He wants to run back to the pub, crawl on his hands and knees, and beg Louis to take him. To have him and hold him and never let go. But there are broken bits of bone and pieces of his shattered heart embedded into his skin. Harry is an abstract piece of art — painted by Picasso himself — stitched together in the wrong places, a faint mirage of who he used to be. 

Nobody could care for such a sorry sight.

The Tomlinson™ poster hangs above his head, the smile on his face coming off as menacing — almost devilish — in the twilight. Harry sits upright in bed, the blood in his head rushing and making him nauseous. He remains still until the sensation passes and then turns to look at Tomlinson’s easy grin, a frown forming on his face.

“You don’t get to judge me, you know,” he says. He attempts to focus on Tomlinson’s eyes, but the closest he can get is staring at the point of his chin. “You aren’t perfect either.”

 _But he is,_ Harry thinks, almost bitterly. He _is_ perfect. Even in all the ways he may not be, he’s perfect to Harry, perfect in all the ways that matter, and that’s what frightens him. Lous is perfect in all the ways Harry never can be. In all the ways he doesn’t deserve. It’s why he has to keep his distance, but also can’t bear the thought of letting Louis go. 

The tears start forming before he can stop them, and Harry reaches over to the poster and claws at it, ripping it into pieces until there’s nothing left to cast judgment upon him. 

He does that enough himself.

Harry falls asleep much in the way he has a thousand times over: drunk, alone, and drowning in a shitshow of his own creation.

+++

Harry lies in bed, burrowed beneath mounds of blankets, a fortress he made to keep the sunlight away. A farcical attempt to block out the world. Hide himself from view. 

His head throbs beneath his eyelids, the pain spreading from the crown of his head and into his chest. Moments pass by where he sometimes forgets to breathe. Everything hurts. When he had woken up this morning, he couldn’t remember a thing; and now that the memories are coming back, he wishes they had remained lost. 

He fucked up this time. And he doesn’t know how to fix it, or whether it’s something that’s worth fixing, or if it can be fixed. Or if something can be broken when there had been nothing there in the first place. Nothing substantial anyway. Nothing solid.

When Louis had stood in front of him, his eyes shining and lips bitten-red, declaring his feelings . . . Harry hadn’t known what to do. He had been drunk on tequila and scared and not in the correct mindset to be having conversations like that. But Louis had pushed and pushed and pushed — always with the pushing — and Harry’s fraying nerves had snapped.

He picks up his phone and sees that it’s half past ten. He’s already late for work. There are about a dozen missed calls from Liam and Niall, plus two from Zayn, a couple from his sister. There are even more from Louis, and an inbox filled to the brim with voicemails. He sees a message waiting from his boss, too. 

All in all, Harry is _not_ having a good morning.

Leaving the warmth of his cocoon is one of the hardest things he has ever done, but somehow, Harry peels himself away from the covers and stands up on wobbly feet. His stomach is doing somersaults and he has to lean his hand against the wall to keep his body from falling. There’s a bottle of painkillers and a glass of water on his bedside table. He takes them desperately, thanking the deities above that Niall Horan came into his life. 

He throws his phone back onto his bed, ignoring all of the unread messages and unreturned phone calls. He’ll deal with the consequences later.

What he needs more than anything right now is a shower, so that’s just what Harry does. He stands beneath the scalding hot water, allowing it to soothe the knots from his muscles as he scrubs away the scent of alcohol. The steam encases him in a dreamlike cloud, obscuring the world around him; he wishes he could stand here forever, locked away in a fog of white. That way, he could stop hurting people. And being hurt in return. Louis’ face comes to him, wet with tears and showing nothing but pain and disappointment . . . 

Harry slaps his cheek, forcing his mind back into focus. He can’t lose his mind over this, can’t afford to. This whole situation is his grave, and he’s the one who dug it. The least he can do is lie in it. 

When he enters the sitting room, wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his hair and a fluffy yellow robe, he stops short. A woman is sitting before him. The one he hazily remembers Niall speaking to last night. Her hair is even redder than he thought. She smiles at him from her spot on the couch, a black leather purse in her lap and phone in one hand. Niall is nowhere in sight.

“Hello,” she says.

“Hello.” Harry doesn’t know what to do. Especially when he’s got nothing but a bathrobe on and she’s looking at him with a pair of unnerving, grey-blue eyes. 

“I’m Ava. Nice to meet you.” Her teeth are a blinding white and Harry has to squint.

“Harry. And likewise.”

“You’re the one dating Louis Tomlinson, yeah?”

“Um, no. We’re not dating.” 

She looks surprised. “Oh, well, that’s not what the news is saying.”

“What?” He circles around the couch and sits beside her, his hands clutching at his bare knees.

“Yeah.” Ava inches closer to him, scrolling through her newsfeed on Facebook until she finds the article she’s looking for and clicks on it. “It’s been all over social media today. Haven’t you checked?”

Harry swallows and shakes his head, the urge to vomit growing. “I just woke up.”

Now the sheer volume of unread texts and missed calls makes sense. They had all seen the news. They were all likely either concerned or confused. And, god. Louis had probably seen it as well. He can’t imagine what Louis is thinking, or what the messages he had left Harry said. The thought has his stomach churning even more and he has to swallow down a bit of bile.

Ava glances at him while she hands him her phone. “It doesn’t say much. Just that you’re some ‘mystery man’ and a bit of speculation. I saw you two at the bar last night though, so when I read the article I assumed it was true.”

Harry shakes his head and tries to read, but all he can see is a blend of black and white and a blurry photograph. “Not true.”

“Why not?” 

The way she asks it sounds so simple. _Why not?_ As in: Why not date the man you’ve been lusting after for years? Why not take a chance with the guy who’s shown nothing but kindness and genuine interest towards you? Why not why not why not. Harry can’t understand why. He only knows that it’s more complicated beneath the surface. His body is always _yes yes yes_ , but his mind resists him, screaming _no no no_. 

He blinks, looking up at her. “It’s complicated.”

“You like each other. I can see that much.”

“We do.”

“Seems simple to me.”

Harry stares at her, at the fiery hair and eerie eyes and pink lips. “Where’s Niall?”

He needs Niall right now. His head has started to float away and he needs a steady hand to guide him back.

“Shower. Should be out soon.”

“Okay.” He starts to get up and retreat to his room. He needs to process this, to regain his breathing. But Ava stops him with a gentle hand.

“Sorry. Can I have my phone back?”

“Oh, right.” 

As soon as Harry closes his bedroom door he grabs his laptop, opting to ignore his phone until he can mentally process everyone else’s reactions. He hasn’t read anything yet. He deserves to have his own reaction first.

He still can’t quite believe this is happening to him. None of this feels real. Maybe that’s why he’s able to go through the motions, his breathing shallow but stable. The reality of it all hasn’t hit him. He doesn’t know what will happen when it does.

A Google search automatically brings up five separate articles, all with headlines that read along the same lines:

_LOUIS TOMLINSON WITH NEW BOYFRIEND?_

_MYSTERY MAN KISSES LOUIS TOMLINSON ON THE CHEEK AFTER CHARITY MATCH VICTORY_

_WHO IS THE NEW MAN IN LOUIS TOMLINSON’S LIFE?_

Harry sighs and clicks on the first link.

> _A new rumor about Louis Tomlinson and a mystery man has surfaced after yesterday's charity match in Holmes Chapel, where Tomlinson was pictured in the arms of the man, who placed a rather intimate kiss on Tomlinson’s cheek._
> 
> _Upon seeing the image, fans online have gone into a frenzy, reposting the picture across social media platforms and demanding to know who this mystery man is:_
> 
> _@TomlinsonFever omggg what the FUCK did you guys see the guy Louis is hugging hes so cute i hope they’re dating_
> 
> _@tomlinsonsbum WHO IS THIS MAN WHERE DID HE COME FROM ARE THEY DATING WE NEED ANSWERS_
> 
> _@louisisking okay but why are they the hottest couple ive ever seen in my life its NOT FAIR_
> 
> _The status of Tomlinson’s relationship with the mystery man hasn’t been verified, so there is no way to know whether he is just a friend or ‘something more.’ As a celebrity well-known for enjoying his privacy—_

His laptop screen is snapped shut and Harry barely has any time to pull his fingers away. “What the fuck?”

Niall is standing over him, his freshly washed hair dripping onto Harry’s duvet as he yanks the laptop away and tucks it under his arm. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to figure out when the fuck I started dating Louis, I guess.”

“Well don’t. Those articles are shit.”

“So you’ve read them?”

Niall shakes his head. “Please don’t torture yourself.”

He knows Niall is trying to help, but Harry snaps. “I was fine until _she_ pointed them out to me.”

“ _She_ has a name.”

“Who is she?”

“We’ll talk about that later. Don’t change the subject. What happened last night?”

“I think I drank too much.”

Niall rolls his eyes towards the ceiling and pinches his nose. “I meant between you and Louis.”

“We had a fight.” Again come the images of Louis crying, Louis looking at him with wet eyes, Louis sucking on his cigarette desperately, Louis refusing to let Harry ignore this thing between them. 

“I know. Louis looked pretty upset.”

Harry groans, rubbing at his eyes. “Yeah, well. He cornered me.”

“Bullshit. He only verbalized what you’ve been dancing around for a while now.”

“I wish he hadn’t.”

“Why? So you can keep toying with him?” Niall sounds legitimately angry now, and Harry blinks back in shock. 

“No, I—”

“Can I say something? And you have to promise not to hit me afterwards.”

Harry nods mutely. He’s too tired and upset and hungover to do anything at this point. Even his heart and stomach are too exhausted to continue their torture of him.

“You’re different around him. More like you used to be. It’s nice to see you like that. I’ve missed the old you. And you know I’m not complaining about helping you out and being there, but you can’t close yourself off from Louis because you’re scared. And you definitely can’t string him along. Don't let fear rule your life, Harry.”

“I don’t know how not to.” 

“That’s why you have all of your friends and family in your corner.”

Of course, Harry knows he’s right. He’s always right. But that doesn’t undo the damage that Harry has already done. “He hates me now.”

Niall looks at him doubtfully. “You really think that’s true?”

“I can’t do anything about my feelings for him until I work on myself. I told you that.”

“But did you tell him that?”

No. Harry hadn’t said it to Louis in those exact words. If he remembers correctly, he had merely said _I’m fucked up Louis_ , thinking that that explanation would be sufficient enough. He had also been drunk off his ass and not making sense at all. So, no.

But how could he even begin to explain?

Niall rests his hand on top of Harry’s hair, brushing back the curls from his damp forehead. “I think you should talk to him.”

+++

It’s hard to talk to Louis when he won’t return any of Harry’s phone calls.

Right after Niall leaves his bedroom, Harry grabs his phone, ignoring the messages from everyone else and heading straight for the messages from Louis. He immediately wishes he hadn’t. His heart begins to sink lower and lower, straight into his stomach, with every text he reads:

_I didnt mean it come back :((((((((_

_Ur so frustrating and confusing_

_But somehohw i still really really like u_

_Im gonna call you_

_u didnt pick up_

_The party isnt fun without u_

_Im not maknig myself any more desirable here am i_

_Idk why but its like my soul aches for u_

_Is that weird to say_

_Why wont u pick up_

There are three separate voicemails from Louis. Two are from last night, probably left when Louis had tried calling him. Harry had been spinning on his mattress, succumbed to the tequila and tearing Louis’ poster to shreds, all while Louis had been trying to get a hold of him. He could have gone straight back, apologized and had a real conversation, but instead he had chosen to give up and walk away. 

His excuse has always been that he needs to work on himself. But this entire time, Harry had already given up hope, instead opting to kill any inklings of happiness and wallow in his own self-pity. How macabre of him. How naive.

The first two messages of Louis almost bring tears to Harry’s eyes. Louis’ nose is clogged — presumably from crying — and he’s pouring his heart out to Harry. He talks about his mum and how much he misses her and how he hates to be alone at night and how the party is like a barren wasteland without Harry there to give it life and how he hates how much his feelings for Harry have consumed him and how he feels weaker than ever but also how Harry has given him small bouts of strength in the small, unexpected moments they have shared together.

Suddenly, Harry is transported back to his conversation with Zayn at Louis’ house party: _He seems happier around you._ He hadn’t given it much thought since then. But now, listening to Louis’ broken voice . . . the words cut deeper.

“It’s only been a month of me knowing you, but it feels like I’ve known you my whole life. I don’t even know your middle name, for Christ’s sake. But does that even matter? What classifies knowing a person anyway? The moment I met you it was like I’d been living a half-life and BAM! It was like I could finally see the world more clearly. How fucked up is that? What the fuck does that even mean?”

Harry tries very hard to _not_ think about what it means for them.

Because he’d had the same exact feeling.

Click. Like a piece falling into place.

The third message from this morning has a different tone — almost business-like — and Harry immediately gets whiplash. Louis sounds tired, but also a tad anxious, as though he’s afraid of how Harry might respond to the rumors.

“Hey Harry, sorry about last night. I hope you slept well. If you see any articles this morning about you and me, please don’t look into them too much. My team is working on getting them taken down. I can make a statement as well. No need to worry,” and then a slight hesitation. “You were right, by the way. Let’s be friends.”

Let’s be friends.

_Let’s be friends let’s be friends let’s be friends let’s be friends._

The words roll around his tongue and Harry has the urge to spit them out. Straight into the garbage bin. They don’t feel right. And he hadn’t realized how wrong it sounded until it came from Louis’ mouth. Harry wants to take them back. Shove the words back down his throat and choke on them. No, no, _no_. Friends is not what he wants. It’s never been what he’s wanted. But he’s been too much of a chicken to do anything about it.

When he tries calling Louis for the third time and still gets no response, Harry thinks maybe this is the universe’s way of telling him he has already messed things up beyond repair.

He doesn’t call a fourth time.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Louis try to be friends.

Louis still hasn’t called him back. 

And, like, it’s only been a day. Harry shouldn’t be worried. But of course he is.

He wouldn’t know what to say if Louis answered anyway. Please take me back? (He was never his to begin with.) Let’s not be friends, let's be more? (He’s too afraid to take that risk.) I want to kiss you more than anything? (Because really, it’s all Harry ever thinks about these days.)

None of those are good options.

So he sits. And waits.

Harry is at work that morning, trying hard to ignore the furtive looks his coworkers are sending him. Some are curious, others concerned. It puts Harry’s teeth on edge. He feels like a museum display, stuffed inside a glass case and suffocating beneath the crowd’s scrutiny. 

He’s gotten not one, not two, but three questions today about whether they could do a profile on him. You know, “be the first to get the full scoop on their relationship.”

Work is no longer safe. People that he had considered friends have already asked him for Louis’ autograph. He can’t fucking breathe here.

When he knocks on his boss’s door, Irving holds up a finger but waves him in. He’s on the phone with what sounds like another reporter. Harry perches on a chair closest to the desk and waits, staring at a photo of Irving shaking hands with a bald man whom Harry has never seen.

“I don’t care if the fucking Sun wants an exclusive. You’re not getting it.” A pause. “If you don’t leave our boy alone, you’ll have me to deal with.” 

Irving hangs up then, grumbling under his breath about The Sun being a bunch of vultures. He looks at Harry. “How are you? No bullshit.”

Harry swallows. “Not so great.”

“Yeah, I don’t blame you. The press fucking loves dating rumors. Always has. I’ve never quite understood the hype.”

“Me neither.”

Irving narrows his eyes. “You know I got your back, right? I won’t let anyone take advantage of your situation.”

“Erm, yeah. That’s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Irving gestures for him to continue.

“Well, it’s just, I’ve had three people on staff ask to write a piece on me and Louis today. It’s making it difficult to do my job.”

“Who?” 

“I don’t want to name names . . .”

Irving rolls his eyes. He reaches below his desk and grabs two clear glasses and a bottle of bourbon whiskey. Without asking Harry, he pours two drinks and pushes one across the desk towards him. Harry has a moment of pure disbelief — he assumed stuff like this only happened in movies. “Listen, Styles. I would much rather know who is acting unprofessional in my press room. If you don’t tell me, I can’t help you.”

Harry takes the whiskey and downs it. “Heather, Jordan, and Brian. Others have asked me for autographs.”

“Christ.” Irving pours another glass for Harry and watches as he downs this one just as fast. “You should take the rest of the day and work from home. Take as long as you need for this to blow over.”

Harry nods. It’s a good plan. Probably for the best. He sets the glass down and stands up. “Of course, sir.”

He’s about to leave the office when he remembers the other reason he’d come in here. “By the way, I’ve emailed you my first draft of the charity match article. I wrote it all this morning.”

Irving takes off his glasses and rubs at his eyes. “Right. Are you sure you want to stay assigned to that piece?”

“Of course. I’ve been involved since the beginning.”

“So long as you don’t let your emotions get in the way.” Irving watches him carefully.

“I never do.” 

There’s an awkward pause where Irving gives him a doubtful look and Harry doesn’t know what to do with his hands or legs, so he stands there dumbly until Irving waves him off.

The walk home is better than inside his office, but there are still people who recognize him. Many of them seem to be stragglers from the match. They walk around town in their rainbow merch and point at him with accusing fingers and whisper behind their hands. Harry feels like he’s in a fucking drama show. Kind of like Gossip Girl. 

He hates Gossip Girl. He wonders if Louis hates it, too. Or whether he likes it. If Louis liked it, Harry would watch without complaint. 

_Ugh_. How pathetic.

Is this his life now? Pining over Louis and wondering about his favorite things and wanting to like those things too? Like a lovesick puppy? No. Harry can’t have that. That’s exactly how it had been with Noah. He’d given up so much just to prove to Noah he cared. He had stopped singing in the shower because Noah didn’t like the noise; had cooked nothing but fish and chips because it was one of Noah’s favorite meals; had only ever rented the movies Noah wanted to watch or played the music Noah liked to hear. Everything became a sacrifice. And Harry ended up losing himself to the flames.

He’s nearing the road that will take him home when he sees Zayn and Liam lounging outside of the psychic shop. Zayn is smoking a blunt while Liam sits beside him and meditates. The bright glow of the late morning sun casts them in an otherworldly tint, emphasizing their beauty. Two beings eclipsing the mortal plane. 

Seeing Zayn in town causes Harry’s stomach to drop. Because if Zayn is still here, the likelihood of Louis being somewhere nearby is high. And despite Harry calling Louis multiple times, he doesn’t know what he would say, if forced to confront him in person.

Before he can cut across the grass and avoid an awkward conversation, Zayn spots him and waves him over. “Harry!”

He stops in the grass and waves back, hoping it will be enough. But Zayn is almost as persistent as Louis. He continues to wave Harry over until there’s no other choice but to relent. Harry knows he’s going to regret it, but he sighs and trudges over. 

“Hi, Zayn.”

Zayn grins up at him. “I was afraid I’d miss you.”

“Oh?” Had he been _waiting_ for Harry?

“Liam said you walk by here almost every day. I was hoping we could talk.”

Harry stuffs his hands in his jacket and looks away. “About what?”

He’s trying not to be rude. He likes Zayn — he does. But the two of them had only ever had a handful of conversations, and having Zayn waiting around for him just to talk doesn’t bode well. There’s only one topic that could be on his mind.

“I heard about what happened.”

“Okay,” Harry says. He takes a seat beside Zayn and keeps his eyes forward, uncomfortable under the other man’s scrutiny. The blunt is offered to Harry. He grabs it, rolling it between his fingers before taking a desperate puff. Harry sighs out a breath of smoke. “What did you hear?” 

“Louis said that he got rejected. He seems pretty heartbroken.”

“Oh.” It’s not that the statement is wrong. Harry had essentially told Louis to stop trying, but it wasn’t because he didn’t like Louis; Harry is far too damaged for anyone to get invested in him right now. He was trying to save Louis the heartache. Not trying to break his heart.

There’s a bird hopping across the pavement, so Harry focuses on that instead of the static in his brain. It stops and stares at him with beady black eyes.

“I was wondering why. I thought you liked him.”

“Liking someone isn’t enough.” 

“That’s debatable. It’s been a while since he’s really found someone he wants to invest time in.”

Harry swallows, but doesn’t say a word. What is he supposed to say to that?

“He said something a while back about you having a bad breakup, but didn’t give many details . . . it’s all in the past, yeah?”

Harry’s mind flashes to all the times Noah has called him in the past few years. He passes the blunt back to Zayn’s waiting hand. “I don’t think anything is ever really left in the past. I’ve still got some shit to work out.”

Zayn nods. “I can understand that. Did you say as much to Louis?”

“Not in so many words.”

“Why not?”

“I was drunk and confused. Still am. Confused, that is.”

“Liam will do a reading for you. I think it could help.”

Harry peeks over at Liam, who is still motionless beside Zayn, his face set in stone. “What kind of reading?”

“Tarot.” Zayn gives a half-smile. “It’s what we were doing that day you all barged in.”

“Oh, sorry about that.”

Zayn shakes his head. “I’m not. We finished the reading once everyone left and . . . it was therapeutic. Helped me center myself and my priorities.”

“How so?”

Zayn takes out his lighter and flicks it so the flame comes to life. “Has Louis told you anything about me?”

Harry stares at the lighter as Zayn brings the flame towards his fingertips, just barely grazing his skin. “Not a lot. Just that you’re his best mate. I’ve noticed some things, but I try not to make assumptions.”

Zayn’s smile is humorless. “I’m not depressed or suicidal.”

“Oh.” 

The flame comes closer to his flesh and remains there. Harry watches in horror as Zayn’s finger begins to bubble and turn an angry shade of red. Zayn doesn’t even flinch. He continues to stare at Harry as though they’re having a normal conversation, as though his finger isn’t being mutilated. 

Before Harry can react, Liam is snatching the lighter out of Zayn’s hand and glaring at him. “Stop that.”

“I was only giving a demonstration.” Zayn complains, reaching for the lighter.

“You don’t need to. You could’ve just told him.”

Zayn sighs. “Fine. I’m sorry.”

“You’ll get this back when you can prove to me you won’t do it again.” Liam pockets the lighter in his faded jeans.

“What makes you think that’s my only one?”

Liam sends Zayn a baleful look. “I’ll search you.”

“Promise?”

Harry’s having that feeling again — like he’s intruding on an intimate moment — and he forces himself to look away. He doesn’t know what the fuck just happened, or what Zayn was trying to show him, but his thoughts are stuck on how Zayn and Liam seem so easy together. He wants to ask them how they do it. How they make it look so simple. But he doesn’t even know if they’re dating. If they aren’t, they should be.

Liam ignores Zayn and moves his attention onto Harry. Those all-knowing eyes are back in place, burning into him as hot and raw as the flame against Zayn’s skin. “I’ll give you a reading, if you’d like.”

“You’ve given me too many freebies.”

Liam raises a brow. “Who said it would be free?”

Zayn punches his arm and looks back at Harry. “He’s kidding.”

“Ouch. That hurt.” Liam pouts, rubbing at his arm.

Zayn smiles, bringing his forgotten blunt back to his lips and inhaling deep. “Oh? I couldn’t feel a thing.”

+++

Harry sits cross-legged with a spread of cards laid out on the floor in front of him. The same white candle from before is burning again and Liam is staring at the cards, deciphering their message. Harry’s trying his hardest not to fidget. Instead he diverts his attention to the flat around him, noting that it appears much cleaner than last time. More organized. The heap of clothes and piled dishes have disappeared, replaced with a fresh lemon scent and sparkling countertops.

He doesn’t know why he agreed to this. He’s never done a tarot reading before — or anything like it. The closest Harry has gotten was the first time he visited Liam’s shop and received Louis’ painting. Even then, he hadn’t really believed any of it. He doesn’t quite know _what_ he believes anymore, but Zayn had been adamant that Harry at least try it out. So. Here he is. 

Zayn is sitting downstairs, his finger now clean and bandaged tight, probably perusing through a stack of Liam’s unfinished paintings or flipping through the pages of a poetry book he’d carried down with him. Liam had said that it was best if Harry and him were alone, so that no other energies could taint the reading. He hadn’t even allowed Harry to touch his cards, because he was afraid that the negative energy would rub off on them.

“No offense, mate.” He had said. Which, none taken. Harry had the tendency to be negative. He was well aware of that.

The cards themselves are breathtaking, but simple in their design: the images and words are etched in shimmering gold and cast against a matte black background. When the sunlight drifts through the windows and catches the cards at the right angle, Harry swears that the images begin to move. He thinks that the deck suits Liam perfectly. Almost like it was hand-crafted specifically for him. Harry can understand why he doesn’t want anyone to touch it.

“Okay,” Liam says. “This is the Celtic Cross spread. A pretty standard spread for readings. It’s meant to give you an idea of how to handle a current situation you’re in. You’re still thinking about the problem I asked you to focus on, right?”

 _Always,_ Harry thinks. But he only nods. 

Liam returns his gaze back to the spread. “First thing’s first: I’m seeing a lot of turbulence here. You don’t seem to have a ton of control over your emotions right now. This,” he points to the card labeled the King of Cups, “is reversed, meaning you haven’t mastered that connection between your mind and your heart. And paired with the Three of Cups, here, you seem to be resisting the people in your life who are there to support you. Could be family or friends. Anyone who’s interested in your well-being. Or, they could be the source of your turbulent emotions. That’s your current challenge.”

Harry gulps. He can think of multiple people he’s been resisting. But mostly, his mind strays to the image of Louis crying in the yellow glare of the streetlights. Feeling rejected and sad, telling Harry to go but then later calling him asking him to come back. And the images just keep coming: Louis crying in the meadow as the waning sunlight hits his face; Louis tearing up on the footy pitch after he read Harry’s article; Louis looking hurt and disappointed at Harry’s blaise attitude towards him that day in the flat. His heart aches. All Louis has been trying to do — this whole damn time — is be open and honest with Harry. While Harry has done nothing but hurt him in return.

Liam continues, oblivious to Harry’s internal struggle. “Which is interesting, because here you’ve got The Empress reversed and placed in your past. She represents one’s connection to their feminine side, and when she’s upside down it often signifies that you’ve given up your personal power and placed emphasis on another person's emotional and physical needs. It also may signify a lack of confidence. Your resistance towards accepting help now could very well stem from your history of neglecting your own needs.”

Noah. Noah. _Noah_. His entire body is screaming that name. 

God. What the fuck.

“Ah, but your future's looking bright. The Four of Wands, right here,” he points, “is all about joy, growth, and comfort. Usually in relation to the people in your life. So, despite you resisting help from your friends and family now, or there being some strain, it appears that in the near future things will work out. People don’t often appreciate this card enough, actually. My guess is that you’ll undergo some personal growth and this will allow you to open yourself up more and be able to fully enjoy the company of those you care about. And your goal, which is represented here by the reversed Sun card — also a good one — is rather optimistic. You’ve experienced some setbacks that may have damaged your enthusiasm, but you’re actively working towards improving your outlook on life. The Sun card is never bad. You’ve got good intentions.”

Harry had never actively thought about his intentions with Louis, or with anyone, really. But _were_ they good? He’s spent the past weeks pushing and pulling against Louis like the moon does to the tide, yanking him under and spitting him back out onto the sand. All because he couldn’t decide, couldn’t get over his own shit, but also couldn’t bear the thought of letting Louis go.

Liam eyes him carefully. “You’re not a bad person, Harry.”

“I’m not so sure anymore.”

“You’re not. Look.” He points down at the Knight of Cups. “You’re driven by emotion. You act based on how you feel rather than what you think. And I think that’s why you’ve been having so much trouble. You’ve been forcing yourself to _think_ too much lately, rather than feel, and it’s throwing your inner self out of balance. This goes back to the King of Cups. You keep thinking that you have to choose one or the other, but that’s not how it works, Harry. By nature, you’re a romantic. You need to follow your heart. But you also need to listen to that voice in your head every once in a while. It’s a balancing act.”

Harry stares at the Knight of Cups with furrowed brows. “How do you get all of that from a card?”

Liam opens his hands. “It’s not one card, it’s a whole spread. I take the separate interpretations and combine them so that they make sense. And I have to say, your reading is one of the clearest I’ve had in awhile.”

Harry’s mind goes back to his and Liam’s interview and the way Liam had described his initial reaction upon seeing Harry. _I started to see the full image the moment I saw you. That’s never happened to me before._ He doesn’t know what it means, or why he seems to be such a beacon for Liam’s intuitive feelings. But the more he thinks about it, the more his skin begins to crawl.

“Do you want me to stop?” 

Harry considers. If he stops now, then it’s going to bother him. He’ll keep wondering about what the rest of the cards might mean. He shakes his head. “No. Keep going, please.”

Liam stares at him a beat longer before shrugging. “This one is simple. Ace of Wands. Based on its order in the spread, it represents the cards’ advice to you. Basically, it’s a sign that whatever you may be questioning right now is the right path, and that you should take it. Again, another emphasis on following your heart."

He pauses at the next card. “So, in terms of your environment, it could prove to be challenging. The Seven of Wands, when reversed, simply means that you feel weighed down by an external pressure and are tempted to give up. It could also mean that you feel overwhelmed by all of the challenges and responsibilities presented to you. There may be some feelings of vulnerability and inadequacy. You’re also avoiding the conflict and not facing it head on, which, when looking back at your Three of Cups, could be the biggest source of strain on your personal relationships.”

“Now, when it comes to your outcome, this card is interesting.” He points down to a card with what looks like five stars surrounded by circles. “Most people believe that the Five of Pentacles is only ever referencing financial problems, but this can mean a lack of spiritual wealth as well. You’re sabotaging your own potential for personal abundance because you are too busy focusing on what you’re missing. When I look back at all of your other cards, this may mean that if you don’t follow the cards’ advice, and if you continue to push people away and be out-of-tune with yourself, you may end up completely alone.”

“Oh.” Harry’s stomach flips. The end of the reading doesn’t bode well with him. When Liam had mentioned The Sun card, he had thought that maybe things could work out, but now, staring down at the Five of Pentacles, Harry can feel the emptiness inside him growing faster and wider until the black hole is expanding. Eating and destroying and sucking every particle of light into a dark, endless void.

Liam’s gaze is unwavering. “Harry, it’s not a bad reading.”

He scoffs. “You just told me I could end up completely alone.”

“Yeah, but based on your other cards, I think you realize that you have the personal responsibility to work on yourself so you don’t, right?”

Harry shrugs. “I guess.”

“If you can’t accept the truth from the spread, maybe you’ll accept it from me?” 

Harry shrugs again.

Liam moves his head to catch Harry’s eyes. “I don’t know exactly what’s happened the past few days. What I _do_ know is that you’re a good person. You just get stuck in your head sometimes and forget about other people’s feelings. If you can recognize that, and work on it, everything will work out in the end. Okay?”

“But what if I try and it’s still not enough?” He can’t help but cling to that one, singular thought. _What if I try and fail? What if I still end up alone?_

Liam’s smile is gentle. “I think trying is all we can ever do. As long as you try, things will work out. Maybe not in the way you expect. Maybe not right away. But they will.”

+++

When Harry returns to the flat, Niall is waiting on the couch for him. His leg is bouncing and he’s got a large canvas in his hands. Harry’s tempted to retreat backwards and out of the flat, because he knows what this conversation is about to be, and he isn’t in the mood for it. Not after Zayn’s ambush and Liam’s reading. Not after his hellish morning at work. He’s too exhausted.

“Oi, come here.” Niall calls, catching Harry attempting to head straight for his room. He sighs and turns towards Niall, mentally preparing for his fourth uncomfortable conversation of the day.

“What’s up, Ni?”

Niall’s hands tighten on the canvas. “I told you we were going to talk about Ava.”

Harry motions for him to continue.

“Well, you know how I told you I went to see Liam, but I never showed you my painting. I didn’t want to jinx it.” His words are blurring together as he rushes to get the words out. “And then I saw her at the pub after the game, and I almost shit myself, H. It was this incredible moment. We made eye contact across the room and it all clicked together. We talked the whole night. Didn’t sleep a wink.”

Harry swallows hard. “I’m happy for you, mate. Really.”

The smile on Niall’s face is knowing. “I know you’re going through a shit time. I’m not trying to rub anything in your face or prove something. I only wanted to ask you . . . what did you feel when you first saw Louis?”

Harry sighs, rubbing his hand along his jaw. “I don’t know, Ni. I was pretty starstruck. I don’t think my situation would be considered the blueprint for how it’s supposed to feel.”

Niall shakes his head. “No, that’s not what I meant. The first time you _ever_ saw him. Do you remember it?”

He does remember. He had just turned twenty-one and was about to graduate from uni. Life had been promising — he’d planned on moving to London and getting out of Holmes Chapel once and for all; there were multiple papers who wanted him, he was dating a nice guy named Carter, and he and Niall were going to be roommates. Then it all came crashing down. 

Gary, his stepfather, had passed away in his sleep that winter. Out of the blue. Cause unknown. Gone in a blink. Harry’s mother had been devastated and he couldn’t stand the idea of moving away and leaving her behind. So he had stayed. He kept her company and took care of the house while they both were in mourning. And the dreams of London sort of slipped away.

Louis had signed onto the Doncaster Rovers around the same time. Harry had begun to spend his days at home with his mum, locked away from the world and watching nothing but telly all day. She never cared what he put on, so Harry would watch footy while she sniffled beside him or went on one of her cleaning sprees. There was nothing special about that specific day, or the game that was on. Harry had — in all honesty — never been a huge fan of the Rovers before, and hadn’t been too invested in the game. But when they had announced Louis as a new player and his picture appeared onscreen . . . Harry remembers _that_ moment vividly.

Right in the center of his chest, his heart sighed in relief. Almost like it had been beating for the sole purpose of that moment. Like it had been half-full, but was now bursting to the brim with everything Harry wanted in the world. And Louis was everything.

Harry nods. “I do remember.”

“I never understood your obsession, you know? But it all makes sense now. Because now _I’m_ obsessed. It’s like I can’t get enough of her. She’s everything. It’s only been a couple days. How do you resist something like that?”

He hasn’t been resisting. He’s been scratching and clawing and fighting to keep his heart away from Louis, and it still hasn’t been enough. Harry shakes his head. “Very badly.”

“I don’t know why you try at all, H. It’s not the worst thing in the world to be destined for someone else.” Niall’s fingers tap along the canvas. “You could be happy if you let yourself.”

Harry swears that Zayn, Liam, and Niall must have coordinated this. He’s being attacked from all sides at once. But he takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. The Three of Cups comes back into mind: the more he resists the people in his life, the more likely he is to push them away.

Or, that’s what the cards told him, at least.

“I don’t want to be miserable. I’m not trying to be.”

“Have you made an appointment with Brenda, then?”

Shit. He had meant to do that. He really had. “I will. I promise.”

Niall stares at him, doubt flickering in his eyes. “Okay.”

“Can I see the painting?” Harry knows that look all too well. He can’t stand it. So he does what he does best, and avoids the problem. Liam is probably rolling his eyes right now.

Niall’s face perks up at that and he takes the bait. “Yes. It’s fucking beautiful. I mean, she’s even more beautiful in person, duh, but when I saw it the first time I was like, holy _shit_. I’ve never seen anyone so perfect. I mean, you saw her, right? Absolutely gorgeous.”

Harry has to hold back a smile. It’s been a couple months since he’s seen Niall so enamoured. The last girl he dated — Clara, Harry thinks her name was — had Niall falling head over heels for her. He had showered her with presents and taken her out on extravagant dates; he had even flown her out to Paris for the week because she’d said she had always wanted to go. And the girl before that, he had gotten Lewis Capaldi to sing a private concert for her.

And now that he’s found his _soulmate_ (or whatever), Harry is a tad afraid about what he might do. If Harry’s a romantic (not so much anymore, but in the past), then Niall is fucking Cupid. Or Aphrodite. He loves love to the point of borderline obsession. He cries at romantic comedies and proposal videos and, once or twice, Harry has even caught him perusing wedding cake designs for fun. Niall loves the concept of love, the process of falling in love, the feeling of being in love. Every part of the journey is exhilarating to him. 

Harry used to be like that. He wishes he could still be like that.

Niall clenches the canvas even tighter. “I think you two would get along, by the way. If you give her a chance.”

Harry smiles. “Of course. If you like her, I’m sure I will.”

Niall beams at that. And then he flips the canvas around, a brilliant assortment of colors replacing the blank white. Harry has to hold his breath. Because it’s overwhelming, is what it is. He hadn’t gotten a good enough look at Ava when she was here — was far too preoccupied — but now that he’s seeing the painting, Harry can understand the appeal.

Her fiery hair takes center stage on the painting, an imaginary wind blowing it out and backwards, as though she’s a supermodel. There’s a collection of freckles dusting the bridge of her nose and stretching outwards across her cheeks. Creating constellations. Against her pale, creamy skin is a pink blush and full, red lips. Her smile is soft, yet secretive. But it’s her eyes that pull him in: a dark, heavy blue accentuated with bits of grey and green around the iris. She’s got just as many colors as his Louis painting — if not more — and Harry can’t quite believe that this is a piece of art, and not a real person.

Though it might be argued that people can be pieces of art themselves. Like Louis. 

Louis is definitely a piece of art. But whereas Harry was painted by Picasso, all broken apart and thrown back together again, Louis had been crafted by Michelangelo: an untouchable masterpiece that stands the test of time.

“Wow.” 

“Yeah.” Niall sighs, staring at the painting with heart eyes. “I can’t believe she’s real.”

“I can’t believe Liam painted her. It still seems so bizarre to me.”

Niall smiles wryly at him. “Suspend your disbelief, H. As bizarre as it seems, this proves how real it is.”

“I thought you weren’t trying to prove anything?”

He laughs. “Maybe a little bit.”

“Well, I’m glad you found her. I hope it works out.” And Harry finds that he means it, because _of course_ he wants Niall to find happiness. And if he finds it by believing Ava is his soulmate, then so be it. Harry isn’t here to judge. God knows he has no place to.

Niall nods, eyes still glued to her face. “I was thinking of taking her to Ireland with me. I already bought the tickets. We leave Monday. I know it seems soon — don’t look at me like that — but she’s got an impulsive spirit. So do I.”

Again, Harry can’t quite believe what he's hearing, and how easy Niall is making it sound. Just find the one you’re meant to be with, hop on a plane, and take a vacation as soon as you meet them? No problem. 

Why is it that Harry seems to be the only one who can’t find the simplicity in all of this?

“That’s . . . great, Niall. I’m sure you’ll have a great time.”

“I bought you a ticket, too. I called your boss already. He agreed that you need the time off and said to come back whenever you’re ready. You’re free to join us. We’ll likely be staying until Christmas.”

As nice and thoughtful as the offer is, Harry can’t stand the thought of being a third wheel with Niall and Ava. He hasn’t seen them interact together yet, but if they’re as gross and mushy as Harry imagines they are, he’d have a stomachache within the first hour of being around them. 

“No, thank you. You two should take that time and get to know one another.” Harry pauses, thoughtful. “I think I’ll stay with my mum for a bit.”

“And go to therapy?” 

Right. Of course. 

Harry nods. “And go to therapy. I promise.”

“I’m holding you to that.” Niall threatens, but he’s smiling. He steps closer to Harry and envelops him in a warm hug — Harry has always loved Niall’s hugs the most. He squeezes his shoulders tightly and Harry gets the incredible feeling of being safe. Warm. 

But then Niall is pulling away and bouncing towards his room, yelling something about needing to pack, and Harry is left alone. He doesn’t even get the chance to tell Niall about his day at work, or his weird interaction with Zayn, or his tarot reading with Liam, or that Louis hasn’t called him back, or how unbelievably twisted his insides are. Everything that’s happened in the last forty-eight hours is still unprocessed, settling in his stomach and waiting to be digested. 

He knows it’s selfish and indigent, but Harry needs to talk it all out with someone. And since it’s the weekend, he can’t just call up Brenda and make an impromptu first appointment. That would be rude. Niall has always been his go-to person, the one who can sit there and absorb Harry’s messy thoughts and rationalize them all smoothly and without fault. Now that Niall has found _his_ person, Harry knows that he won’t be a priority anymore. And it’s fucked up that he’s feeling somewhat resentful over it.

Fuck what Liam said. His intentions don’t seem to be good at all. 

Maybe _he_ is the problem.

+++

Harry cannot — for the life of him — stop baking.

He’s made a fruit tart and some brownies and lemon shortbreads (his mum’s favorite) and has now started on a batch of peanut butter cookies. The urge won’t go away. It’s like being home and confined with his mother is bringing all of his old habits back. Whenever Harry used to be stressed growing up, he would spend the whole day in the kitchen baking a pie or decorating a cake. It had been the same when Gary passed away and Harry had moved back in temporarily. He had spent his time alternating between baking and watching footy while Anne alternated hers between cleaning and sleeping.

This time, however, she’s hovering. She sits at the dining room table and watches him move back and forth from counter to counter, mixing batter and pulling pans out of the oven. Her eyes are watchful, but her posture relaxes back into the chair. Anne has always been the type of mum who can understand Harry without words needing to be said. She knows he’s going through something and that he needs someone here right now. So she sits and waits for him to be ready to talk.

His heart aches with how much he loves her.

The timer for the cookies goes off and Harry grabs a paisley oven mitt, taking out the tray and setting it carefully on the overcrowded countertop. He’s taking the mitt off when his mum finally speaks up.

“Harry, love. Why don’t you take a break?”

He wipes the sweat from his temple. “I was about to make a pie. You have apples, right?”

Anne nods, but her lips are thin. “Please, sit.”

Harry hangs his head and walks towards the dining table, sitting heavily down in one of the rickety chairs. The wood creaks beneath his weight as he tries to get comfortable.

“Normally I’m okay to give you your time and space,” Anne says. “But it’s hard for me to watch you like this. You’ve been baking for hours.”

The real reason Harry can’t stop baking is right there, set on the table between them. A dark, empty rectangle and an even emptier inbox. He’s trying his hardest _not_ to check his phone every couple seconds, just to make sure he hasn’t missed Louis’ call. But it doesn’t even matter. Louis won’t be calling him back. The phone mocks him. Baking is his only distraction.

“Just a bit stressed, is all.”

She tilts her head. “Just a bit? Honey, you never bake brownies unless you’re sad.”

It’s true. In the aftermath of the funeral, Harry had baked tray upon tray of brownies, so many that they had distributed them amongst their neighbors. When Noah had dumped him, his and Niall’s apartment had smelled like chocolate for days. Harry doesn’t even like brownies. “It’s hard to explain.”

“Well, I’m all ears. You came here to talk, right?”

Harry nods. “I think I screwed things up, mum.”

“With Louis?”

“He told me he liked me, and I basically told him to piss off.”

Anne’s forehead creases. “I thought it was mutual.”

Ugh. That’s the third person to tell him as much. Is he that obvious? Does his face have ‘obsessed with Louis Tomlinson’ written all over it?

“It _is_. But I can’t date him. You know I can’t.”

His mum hesitates. She knows almost better than anyone —- except Niall — about all of the ways in which Noah had hurt him. He hadn’t told her the darker pieces of their relationship, but Harry knew she had to have guessed by now. Noah had chewed him up and spit him out in a way nobody else ever had. He had discovered all of the ways he could break Harry and took full advantage of the power he’d held. 

Niall and his mum had been the ones to pick up the pieces when it was over.

“Louis doesn’t seem like he would hurt you.”

Harry shakes his head. “No. He wouldn’t. At least, not intentionally. Not like that.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“I—” The sentence gets caught in his throat and he chokes for a moment. He stares at a spot on the wall above Anne’s head. “I’m scared, mum. I gave everything to someone who never cared. He destroyed me. I don’t think I can handle another heartbreak. I don’t want this thing with Louis to fail.”

“Harry, sweetie, look at me.” Harry turns, reluctantly meeting her eyes. “You’re already heartbroken and you haven’t even given it a chance.”

Her words are soft, yet he can feel the cutting edge. He knows that she’s right. Niall was right, too. He was the first one to warn Harry, saying that Harry’s heart would get broken regardless of whether he put himself out there or not. Niall and his mum are never wrong. 

She stands up then, moving towards the kettle and filling it up with enough water for the both of them and setting it on the stove. She turns with her hands resting against the countertop and watches him carefully. “Do you want to know something?”

The look in her eyes tells him he’s in for a story — a good or bad one, he can’t quite tell — but Harry nods anyways. 

“When I met your father, I absolutely adored him. And he treated me well, at first. He showered me with gifts and called me pet names, always made sure I was taken care of. I fell in love fast and hard. We were married within six months. When Gemma was born, things got dark. But I didn’t want to leave him. I thought I could make it better, so I stayed. And then you were born and things got darker even faster. I couldn’t stay with him then. My mother had to help pull us out of it. She helped me get myself and the two of you out of there. That’s how we ended up here. I was heartbroken and empty inside. I thought I would never love again.”

Harry holds his breath. He’s never heard his mum talk so openly about his biological father before. Harry had always assumed that he had died or left them — not that his mum had done the leaving. He realizes that maybe his mum understands all too well about his relationship with Noah. The thought makes him ache inside.

She turns the stove off as the kettle screams and prepares their tea. “Then I met Gary, and I knew that I had been lying to myself. Of course I could put my heart out there again, because love is a silent companion. It never quite leaves us, does it? We’re always capable of it. The question is whether we choose to take the risk.”

Harry shakes his head. “But what about working on myself first? Isn’t that the most important thing?”

He’s looking for an excuse, and he knows it. His mother knows it, too. 

She looks at him sadly, setting his teacup down gently in front of him. “I think if you have something good, there’s no reason to let it go. If he’s the right person, he’ll stick around while you figure yourself out. All you need is a bit of communication.”

As though on cue, Harry’s phone starts to buzz. A photo he had taken from the charity match of Louis passing the football pops up on screen, and Harry freezes.

His mum smiles. “Go on. Answer it.”

Harry grabs the phone and hurries away towards the front door. He needs to be outside, in the fresh air, if he’s going to be able to handle any part of this conversation. He leans against the banister of his mum’s front porch and inhales deeply before placing the phone to his ear.

“I’m glad you called.” He figures he may as well get straight to it. No beating around the bush. Nothing but honesty.

“Hi, sorry I haven’t called you back until now. I was working with my PR team to get the articles taken down. And I had practice.” 

Right. The articles. Harry had almost forgotten about those.

“Oh, that’s alright. I understand.”

“Yeah. Everything’s good now. The articles are down. No worries.”

He doesn’t like the tone Louis is using with him — like this is a business call he’s conducting with a complete stranger, or a mere acquaintance. Harry had never noticed until now how much warmth Louis’ voice carried towards him. Like a summer breeze in the middle of winter.

“You didn’t have to go to all that trouble.”

Louis snorts. “Yeah, I did. I don’t like when the tabloids spread rumors about me.”

“Oh. That makes sense.”

Everything is so awkward. God. _So_ awkward. He doesn’t know what to say right now, because Louis isn’t talking to him in a way that makes any of this easier. He’s acting distant, almost cold.

“So, yeah. I just wanted to let you know. You have nothing to worry about.”

Harry’s stomach sinks. “I wasn’t worried.”

“Oh? I figured you might be.”

Ouch. Okay. He deserves that one. “I got your messages.”

A long pause comes from the other end, and then, “Harry—” 

“I’m sorry that I acted like a dick.”

Louis sighs. “It’s my fault. We were drunk. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I don’t want to hurt you, either.”

“Okay, good.” Harry smiles. “We can agree on something, at least.”

Louis’ laugh is short and quick, but Harry feels the warmth return. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“So—”

“I meant what I said, about being friends.” Louis interrupts him, and the warmth that Harry had been feeling quickly dissipates into a cold, familiar loneliness.

“Yeah?” He swallows, trying not to let his disappointment leak into his voice. He had been so ready to tell Louis he felt the same, that he was willing to try, that if Louis could be patient with him, he thought they could make it work. 

But now. Now Harry is doubting himself. Again.

“Yeah,” Louis is saying, his voice barely cutting through the heartbeat in Harry’s ears. “I was thinking we could get to know each other better. Hang out like proper mates.”

“That would be . . . nice. I’d like that.” 

“Okay, great. I’ll text you.”

And then the line goes dead, leaving Harry standing frozen as the flurries begin to fall down around him, catching in his hair and sweater, the cold clinging to him. His hand clenches around the phone as he stares at the blank screen, willing Louis to call him back or text him. Something. Anything. But it only stares back at him.

He re-enters the house slowly, his eyes stinging as all the words he left unsaid get lost in his throat. The front door shuts a little too forcefully and Harry winces.

His mum looks up at him from the couch and smiles. “How did it go?”

Harry blinks back the tears as his gaze wanders back towards the kitchen. “You said you have apples?”

Her smile drops. “Honey—” 

“I’m going to bake a pie.”

He leaves her, dumbfounded on the couch, in favor of wandering towards the kitchen. His body is moving but he doesn’t really feel it. He’s too numb. His mind empties out until the only thought remaining is on where to find the damn apples.

+++

_My middle name is Edward, by the way._

_Like the vampire?_

_I do have a neck fetish if you recall_

_How could I forget, Mr. Cullen_

_Please don’t call me that. Makes me feel creepy._

_Okay, Edward … Eddy? Edison? Ed?_

_God, none of them, please_

_Okay Eduardo :)_

Harry scoffs at his phone. He and Louis have been texting consistently for the past few days, acting as though the night of the charity match had never happened and like everything is normal. Though this time, Harry can tell that Louis is making an even more diligent effort to get to know him. Louis asks him what his favorite foods are (Harry says peas, while Louis sends a puke emoji and claims his is pizza); he asks him his favorite style of music (they are both suckers for soft rock); he asks about his family and his friends and his years in uni; he asks about Niall and how they met. 

The good news is, they never run out of things to talk about. The bad news is, the more Harry learns about Louis, the harder he falls. The deeper into this _thing_ he gets. And it’s impossible to pull himself out of it. He’s desperate to tell Louis how he feels, but also desperate to maintain their delicate friendship. If he pushes, even a little bit, he’s afraid it will all come crumbling down around him.

His phone buzzes, receiving another text from Louis:

_My middle name is William … dont make fun_

_Hmm, like Willy Wonka?_

_No_

_How about Shakespeare?_

_God, no._

_Billy Joel?_

_...acceptable_

_I’ll just call you Willy :)_

_I hate you_

_No you don’t xx_

It’s fine, like this. They can banter over text. Simple, no pressure. No face-to-face. Harry wonders if they’ll ever get to the point where they can be around one another without him blushing like a fucking virgin, or feeling unbearably sad about all the ways he screwed things up between them.

Instead of a text back, Louis’ caller ID — which is now a selfie he’d sent Harry yesterday of him wearing a green hoodie and sticking out his tongue — pops up on his screen. Harry pauses. They haven’t talked on the phone since that initial call, and Harry is hesitant to relive a conversation like that where he leaves feeling hollow and torn up inside.

But Louis’ face on his screen is insistent, staring up at him with those beautiful blue eyes . . . and Harry can’t resist. 

“I can’t believe you would call me Willy. _Willy_ , Harry?” Louis’ voice is scandalized.

Harry smiles to himself. “What’s wrong with Willy?”

“Please. Of all the euphemisms for penis, willy is by far the worst. I thought you had more class.”

“I think it sounds kind of fun. Willy is a silly word. And bonus: it rhymes.”

He can practically hear Louis’ eye roll. “Sometimes I forget how incredibly cheesy your humor is.”

Harry gasps. “Do I need to up my game?”

“Please, no. I might have to stop eating cheese then.”

He laughs, sharp and loud, covering his mouth quickly. “That was a cheesy joke, Tomlinson. I think I’m rubbing off on you.”

“God forbid that ever happens.” 

There’s an awkward moment where the double meaning becomes clear, and Harry feels his cheeks pinken while Louis clears his throat, rushing to change the subject.

“Anyways, I was wondering what you’re doing tomorrow.”

Harry’s heart skips a beat. “Nothing at all.”

“Would you wanna drive over to Donny? I never got to show you around town last time."

Harry wants to argue that he’s never been able to give Louis a proper tour of Holmes Chapel, either, but bites his tongue. Louis is extending an olive branch — inviting Harry to his hometown — and Harry should take it without complaint.

“Yeah, that would be fun. A tour sounds great.”

Louis snorts. “I don’t know if I’d call it a tour. I won’t be leading a presentation or anything, so don’t get your expectations up too high.”

“And here I was hoping to hear every little detail about the history of Doncaster.”

“Hmm, I may share _my_ history, but if you want the actual stuff, you’d be better off with Google, love.”

 _Love._ Such a common term of endearment, so simple, not at all something to freak out over. But Harry’s breath hitches anyways, and it must be audible over the phone, because Louis clears his throat. God, if they can’t even get through a phone conversation without drowning in embarrassment, how are they supposed to survive seeing one another in person?

“Be here by noon? I’d say earlier, but I have to take care of the twins in the morning.”

Harry won’t ever admit it aloud, but every time Louis talks about his siblings, he melts. Which, at this point, he may as well be a tray of ice left out in the summer sun.

“Yeah, of course. Noon it is.”

Which is how he finds himself standing in front of Louis’ front door, his fist raised and ready to knock. He had gone back and forth about whether to cancel (he isn’t ready to face the tension) but he also hadn’t wanted to disappoint Louis or come across as flaky. Harry sighs. He’s ridiculous and he knows it. 

Before he can bring his hand to the solid wood, the door is swinging open and Louis is standing there, wearing a light pink oversized sweater and a pair of white joggers, looking comfortable and handsome as hell. His hair is a little extra messy today, falling into his eyes while his hands quickly try to tame it. 

“Hey,” he says, smiling up at Harry.

Harry bites his cheek. “Hi.”

“Come in, come in.” Louis opens the door wider and waves him inside, heading off towards the sound of a kettle whistling. Harry shrugs off his jacket and looks around. Without the crowd of bodies and the dim lights, Louis’ flat looks like an entirely different place in the daylight. Posher. Richer. More put together than Harry’s and Niall’s, at least. A blush creeps its way onto his face, remembering the first time Louis had come over to their place, how reckless Harry had felt pressing their knees together. He also recalls his last time in Louis’ flat, with Louis snaking around his body in a spellbinding dance. The blush deepens.

“Is Yorkshire tea okay?” He hears Louis call, which snaps him out of it, and Harry is finally able to move towards the kitchen where Louis is standing barefoot with two mugs on the counter and raising one brow in question.

Harry clears his throat. “Um, yeah. Yorkshire is fine.”

Louis tsks. “I think you mean Yorkshire is the best.”

“‘M more of a coffee drinker,” Harry says, pulling at the sleeve of his beige sweater.

“Ah, I almost forgot. You still like milk with tea, right?”

Harry nods and looks around the room. The kitchen is modern style, with stainless steel appliances, black cabinets, and grey and white marble countertops. There are dashes of red throughout: a red knife block, red pots and pans, and a red kettle. The dining room opens up to the left, where a dark oak table sits, a white runner laid across it. If a room could feel like a person, Harry swears that this entire room exudes Louis energy. Maybe the entire flat.

Yikes. He’s starting to sound like Liam.

“Here we are,” Louis says, handing Harry his own cup of tea. “My special recipe.”

Harry pauses with the cup to his lips. “Does special mean poison?”

“No, no. Just milk first.” Louis laughs.

He watches as Louis takes the first sip and follows suit. Yorkshire has never been his favorite tea, but he can admit that this particular cup tastes better than the others he’s had. Harry wonders if that’s his mind playing tricks on him — making him _think_ it tastes better because Louis is the one who made it. But he gulps it down, ignoring the burning in his throat. Louis watches with wide eyes.

“Thirsty?” Louis is holding his own tea cup like a proper Brit, his pinky out while he takes tiny sips. 

Harry blushes. “It tasted good.”

“I told you. Special recipe.”

“I’ll have to share it with my mum.”

Louis’ smile falls a fraction. “My mum taught it to me.”

Of course she did. Harry is an idiot. “Well, she was a genius.”

There’s a moment of silence and Harry can sense that Louis’ sadness (normally hidden deep down, and only ever present in moments like this) is rising to the surface. Harry’s fingers tap at the countertop, trying to grab Louis’ attention again. “So, where are you taking me today?”

Louis perks up a bit. “Oh, I thought we’d go to this great burger joint for lunch. They have veggie burgers you can eat. And then we can walk through town. There’s one place I want to show you, but it’s a surprise.”

“Great. Let’s do it.” Harry pushes away from the counter and inclines his head towards the door. Louis’ eyes still seem far away, but he follows Harry immediately. The moment seems to have passed, but Harry can feel the slight change in the air. Fragile. As though a slight breeze might shatter the glass between them. But, as usual, he chooses to ignore it. 

Lunch proves to create a significant change in Louis’ state of mind. He munches away happily at his burger, the sleeves of his sweatshirt bunched up at his elbows. He’s currently engaged in a one-sided, intense tirade about the decreasing value of the pound. And Harry never thought economics would capture so much of his attention, but he quickly finds that he can’t _not_ listen to Louis. 

Everything he says is insightful, as though he’s spent an absurd amount of hours researching these topics and dissecting each and every one. Whether it be critiquing the ethics behind the creation of a meme on the Internet, or debating the probabilities of aliens existing (“It’s mathematically impossible that we’re the only intelligent lifeforms, Harry”), or diving into an impassioned rant about how Tesco’s is better than Sainsbury’s . . . Harry drinks up every single word. He’s enamored by the way Louis’ passion shows up in everything he says and does, and how he seems to care enough to put so much consideration into things that most people would otherwise spare no second thought. 

It’s almost embarrassing, because Harry can hardly find anything to say in response. If it isn’t about football or charity or Louis, Harry can’t seem to find the words. And every time he thinks of something witty or quirky to say, it fizzles out and dies before it ever leaves his lips. 

After a few minutes or so of Harry’s silence, Louis smiles shyly and licks his lips, catching a bit of mustard that Harry had been staring at. “I’ve been talking your ear off, haven’t I?”

Harry shakes his head a little too quickly. 

“No, not at all. I love listening to you.” The words have left his mouth before he can process them and he knows Louis can see the pink embarrassment filling his cheeks. “I mean, you’re really smart. Got a great mind.”

Louis’ smile grows. “I’m flattered. Thank you.”

Harry bites his lip. “No problem.” 

They sit in comfortable silence. Harry watches the foot traffic out the window while Louis finishes eating his burger, and Harry tries not to show how fond he is over how slow of an eater Louis is, or how he has to hold the bun with both hands. Because. Well. It’s too adorable. And Harry definitely doesn’t think about how much bigger his own hands are, about how his palm could cover Louis’ entire fist if they held hands. Nope.

“Okay,” Louis says, crumpling up his napkin. “I’m done. Let’s go.”

Harry follows him out onto the sidewalk, falling in step with his strides easily (Louis may be shorter, but he walks almost as fast as Harry). The stroll is nice, despite the cold, because Louis continues to talk and Harry is content to listen. He doesn’t tell Harry where they’re going, but Harry tries to mentally take notes about the town as they pass through, cataloguing places Louis is tied to and how. Harry is happy to hear it all. He drinks in Louis’ history with these streets. Down to the smallest drop.

At one point, Louis is describing the art studio where he and his mum used to do pottery together, and he starts to shiver. Harry sheds his jacket without a second thought. They don’t talk about it.

After a while of walking, Louis pauses in front of a park entrance, turning to smile at Harry. “Here we are.”

“A park?”

He’s not going to lie, he had been expecting something with more flair. A bit more Louis-esque. It’s not that he’s disappointed. Just confused.

Louis rolls his eyes and keeps walking. “Yes, Harold. This is a park. Nice deduction skills.”

Harry — for maybe the fifth time today — blushes. “I just meant I wasn’t expecting it.”

“Oh? And what were you expecting?” Louis turns and walks backwards, his hands shoved into the pockets of Harry’s fleece jacket. He tries not to think about how good Louis looks, wearing his clothes. 

“I don’t know, honestly.”

“Well, I was thinking about how you showed me your favorite place to not think, and I thought I would show you mine. Tit for tat, you know.” Louis’ words are casual, but the way he’s holding himself tells Harry that this place means more to him than he’s letting on.

“Oh.” 

They approach the duck pond (which is unsurprisingly empty) and Louis sits on the edge of one of the benches, looking out at the water. Harry sits beside him, leaving as much distance between them as he can without being conspicuous.

“This isn’t my favorite place, exactly. I’m saving that one.” Louis smirks. “But I have a lot of good memories here with me mum and sisters. We used to come feed the ducks a lot. And then once I got older, lots of good memories with the boys I snuck around with. Great place for secret makeout sessions.”

Harry’s eyebrows shoot upwards. “Really?”

There’s a pink tint to Louis’ cheeks, which matches perfectly with his sweatshirt. Harry can’t look away. “Yeah. I was quite the troublesome teen.”

“Secret makeout sessions are normal.” 

He turns and looks at Harry, thoughtful. “Not when you’re a young lad in a more conservative town making out with _other_ young lads.”

He tries to imagine Louis at fifteen, young and carefree and sneaking around, having just come to terms with his sexuality. He wonders what would have happened if they had met at that age, whether he would have been one of those boys Louis had secretly met up with for a midnight makeout session.

“Yeah, well, did you ever sneak a boy into your room while your whole family was home?” 

Louis scoffs. “My house was always too crowded. Sneaking boys in was a no-go.”

“See. Not as troublesome as me, at least.”

There’s a change in the air between them as Louis asks: “Oh, yeah? And what did you do with these boys you snuck in?”

“Played fifa,” Harry says, his eyes wide and innocent.

A cackle of laughter fills the air as Louis throws his head back, his nose scrunched and eyes crinkled. A squirrel on the ground scurries away at the sound. But Harry finds it endlessly beautiful. 

He is only now realizing how empty the park is, how it seems to be just Louis and him in this corner near the pond. Left in their own little section of the world. Because that’s how it is with Louis — everything else disappears. Harry is lost in his laugh, diving into the depths of his voice and drowning in his smile. The overcast skies make the world dull and grey, but Louis is a spot of brightness among it all. The dying trees, the almost-empty park, the bitter wind. All of it fades away. 

Louis, seemingly understanding Harry’s thoughts, smiles at the water and scooches a hair closer. Harry does the same. They alternate like that, inching closer to one another until their thighs are touching. The heat between them crackles like a steady campfire. Harry presses his leg into Louis’, desperate to feel close in whatever way he’s allowed.

“Too bad we didn’t know each other back then,” Louis says. His smile is soft, somewhat nostalgic, as though he’s looking back in time and replacing those faceless boys with Harry, imagining (just like Harry had been) what it would be like if they had met younger and under different circumstances.

Harry knows what he would have done if he had met Louis back then. But he bites his tongue. There’s no point verbalizing the words when they both know the truth. Harry would have fallen head over heels for Louis. There’s no denying it. He thinks that, regardless of timing or age or distance, he would fall for Louis no matter what. 

He’s falling right now. Has been falling for quite some time, actually. And it’s going to hurt like hell when he finally hits the ground.

+++

Hanging out with Louis on a regular basis has become . . . a thing. And Harry doesn’t know how to stop it. Even if he wanted to, he doesn’t think he could. Hanging out with Louis is _nice_. They have so many things in common: like their shared beliefs about human rights; their opinions on whether or not social media is rotting away everyone’s brains; and that family is the most important part of their lives. And where they disagree, it’s the small things: Harry hates olives while Louis loves them; Louis can’t stand country music, but Harry will play an occasional country tune in the car (and Louis never complains); Harry thinks that Manchester United is the best team in the league, whereas Louis argues that Chelsea has more wins and is objectively better. Just small things.

But underneath the innocent banter and getting to know one another, there’s this raw, animalistic tension between them that Harry doesn’t know how to release — well, he knows how, but they can’t do that. Not as long as they’re friends.

He wants to say fuck it, give into his urges, and listen to his heart like Liam told him to. But he’s already hurt Louis once, and Harry has been hurt too much in the past. Is it really worth it to push things when Louis has only recently accepted the idea of them being friends? If Harry were to change his mind and say he wanted more, how would that make him look in Louis’ eyes? 

Like a wishy washy piece of shit. That’s how.

So Harry releases the tension the only other way he knows how: by wanking. A lot. And like. It’s not like he’s never wanked to thoughts of Louis before — back before he’d ever met him, Louis was a constant thought while wanking, the source material Harry kept coming back to — but now that he _knows_ Louis and sees him on a frequent basis, now that they’re friends . . . Harry feels weird about it.

He wonders if Louis gets off to thoughts of him as well. Harry can imagine it clearly: Louis lying in bed, pants thrown off to the side, his wrist flicking quickly and precisely. Harry can imagine the red-bitten hue of his lips (he’s seen it one too many times), the breathy moans, the flutter of his eyelashes as he reaches climax and whispers Harry’s name into the empty air. 

Fuck. 

Harry can’t have these thoughts right now, because he’s supposed to see Louis tonight. There’s a show out in Liverpool and Louis is picking him up on the way. Apparently, one of his uni friends knows the band and can get them backstage. Harry has been looking forward to this gig for days now. But how can he meet Louis’ eyes after having thoughts like _that_?

The tent in his pants won’t go down, however, and Harry sighs. 

He wanks once in his bed (and yeah, the image of Louis below him, holding his hips with Harry straddling him _may_ have popped into his head and Harry _may_ have come embarrassingly quick) and twice in the shower, scrubbing himself raw afterwards to try and clean the thoughts out of his mind. Though, Harry is realizing that no amount of soap and no amount of water can wash away his feelings. Or the burning pool in his gut that builds every time he sees Louis. He’s thoroughly and purely screwed, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

Louis arrives outside Harry’s flat two hours later wearing a denim jacket thrown over a white tee and a pair of black skinny jeans that hug his thighs like a second layer of skin. His hair is swept to the side and the slight breeze ruffles it, making him look like some sort of sexy punk rocker. Harry almost jumps him right there.

Instead, he swallows, tugging at the ruffles of his black sheer top. 

A moment of silence passes as they check one another out — which, god, makes things ten times worse — and a soft smile spreads along Louis’ lips. “I love the shirt.”

He reaches over and catches a ruffle between his fingers, rubbing at the fabric before letting go slowly. Harry tries not to think about his fingers at all, or how slender they are, or how they would feel around— “Thanks. Though I feel a bit too dressed up now. Should I change?”

Harry has to force the words out, otherwise his mind is going to lose all control of his limbs. His fingers are already twitching against his leg, muscles aching to reach out and catch Louis’ retracting hand. 

“No, no. You look brilliant. The world deserves to see you in that shirt.” Louis shakes his head. His words come out breathy, slightly jumbled together in his rush to get them out, which makes Harry blush. This night is going to be torture.

“Okay, I guess if the world deserves it.”

Louis huffs out a laugh. “I guess deserve is the wrong word. The world _should_ see it. Deserve makes it sound like you owe people something. Which you don’t.”

“Right.”

“Yeah.” Louis kicks at the ground with his shoe, his gaze locked on his shoelaces. 

Harry’s heart lurches in his chest. “Er, should we get going?”

The drive is less than an hour, but it feels much longer. Louis puts on one of his many Spotify playlists — this one including some of the songs from the band they’ll be seeing — and drives with one hand on the wheel. Harry tries his best not to look too long at Louis’ profile, instead forcing his stare out the window and trying to calm his frantic heartbeat. 

For some reason, this time feels different from all the other times they’ve hung out the past couple weeks. More formal. Maybe it’s the fact that Louis is coming to pick Harry up, or that Harry has unwittingly dressed up for the occasion, or that Harry is meeting one of Louis’ uni friends, or that Louis had seemed nervous when asking Harry to come out with him in the first place.

Whatever the case, they’re both nervous. And Harry can’t think of a single thing to say to break the awkward tension in the car. 

[Song: [Looking at You by Only the Poets](https://youtu.be/yMgSGc1CzzY)]

Reprieve finally comes when they arrive at the venue, and Louis waves to a tall, handsome man in a leather jacket. Harry instantly notices how attractive he is, and his fingers clench. He can’t help but zero in on Louis’ easy smile and the soft gaze the man is sending in return; his mind strays, wondering what exactly Louis’ relationship with this man is. Or was.

And then he immediately feels like a jerk, because he has no right to care.

“Luke! It’s been a while, mate.”

Mate. Okay. Harry’s breath comes a little easier, shoulders relaxing. 

The man, Luke, steps forward to hug Louis. “Good to see you, Tommo. How is everything?”

Louis’ eyes twinkle. “Brilliant. This is Harry, by the way.”

Luke’s eyes move towards Harry’s face, and his smile falls. It’s hardly perceptible, but Harry catches it. “Nice to meet you, Harry. I think I recognize you from the papers.”

Harry keeps forgetting about that. It helps that he hasn't been to work the last few weeks. But still. How far had those articles gotten before Louis’ team had taken them down? Harry had tried his best to ignore them, so he hadn’t paid attention to the number of shares, but it must have been a ridiculous amount.

Louis’ cheeks go red, but Harry smiles tightly. “Nice to meet you, too.”

The next hour or so is awkward — or, it is for Harry. Louis is completely oblivious to the way Luke looks at him (or he acts oblivious, at the very least), and Harry is trying his hardest to quell the murderous look in his eyes he knows he’s wearing whenever Luke so much as touches Louis. Which he does. Too much.

Whenever Louis makes a joke, Luke laughs and touches his shoulder. Whenever Louis is jostled by the crowd, Luke steadies him by placing a hand on his lower back. Whenever Louis so much as looks Harry’s way, Luke tries to pull his attention back, saying stuff he probably imagines is witty but is actually pretentious as fuck.

The one saving grace is that Louis doesn’t return any of Luke’s affections. He’s too busy leaning into Harry’s space, whispering the lyrics to him or commenting on other people’s outfits, his low voice rumbling in Harry’s ear. When he leaves to get a beer, he makes sure to bring one for Harry as well. Every time a slower song comes on, he finds an excuse to brush his arm against Harry’s.

And Harry is absolutely losing his fucking mind. Because Louis is not only being attentive, but the longer the concert goes on, the more wrecked Louis appears. His hair is standing up in all directions; his white t-shirt is almost as sheer as Harry’s now, drenched in sweat and sticking to Louis’ stomach, revealing the faint outline of his tattoos and the contour of his abs; and every time he takes a swig of beer, he tips his head all the way back, eyelids fluttering and lips fitting seamlessly around the bottle.

The concert is background noise at this point. Harry doesn’t know what song is playing, or what’s happening on stage. The only thing he can seem to focus on is Louis standing beside him, looking like he’s been thoroughly fucked, and how he’s been ignoring Luke’s flirting all night in favor of talking to Harry. Harry’s embarrassed to admit that it’s that last part that has his dick twitching in his trousers, and soon enough it’s impossible to ignore how hard he is.

He excuses himself quickly, ignoring Louis’ questions as he hurries towards the bathroom. And when he finds the stalls empty, Harry almost lets out a breath of relief. 

He slams one of the stall doors shut and drops his trousers and pants, sighing as the cool air hits his erection. He brings his hand to the base and moves quickly. He doesn’t have a lot of time. He knows that someone is likely to come in soon, but he can’t care about that right now. All he can think about is Louis and how fucking good he looks tonight, the way his jeans mold around his ass and the outline of his tattoos and the slow bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows a mouthful of beer, lips wet and pink.

A groan escapes his mouth without him meaning to, and Harry bites his bottom lip. He rests his forehead against the tile and tries to even out his breathing. He can’t do this. He can’t be Louis’ friend. Not without losing his fucking mind first. He doesn’t know how he ever thought it was possible.

He hears the bathroom door open and close, and he’s mentally screaming because he’s close, so close, and he wants whoever this person is to leave so he can finish. He releases a slow breath and keeps his hand at a steady pace. The person is sitting in the stall beside him, just sitting there, until Harry finally hears a soft, breathy sigh. 

Holy fucking shit.

He knows that sigh. He’s dreamt of that sigh, fantasized about it earlier today, actually. _Louis_ is right there, probably wanking alongside Harry. And Harry’s cock gets impossibly harder at the thought. Did he see Harry walk in here? Is that why he came in? Or is he just as sexually frustrated as Harry is?

God. He can’t fucking think. Louis lets out another breathy sigh, this time higher-pitched, almost a whine but not quite there yet. Harry wants to open his mouth, say something to encourage him, tell him how good he is and how beautiful and — fuck, Harry wishes he could see Louis. He can imagine him leaning back against the wall and thumbing the tip of his cock gently at first, but then placing more pressure, his hand moving quicker as his chest trembles. Harry can hear his pants grow more urgent, and his own hand picks up its steady pace until the sound of their slick fingers moving coincides into one beautiful echo. He remembers the feel of Louis’ bulge grinding into him at the pub a couple weeks ago (has it really been that long?) and thinks about how fucking good it would feel to have the real deal.

“Harry.” Louis breathes, quietly. Almost to himself. It sounds like a plea, like he’s begging for Harry to finish him off and bring him all the way to the edge. God. He probably looks so beautiful right now. Harry can’t stand not being able to see him. He tries not to think about the red blush that’s likely blooming along Louis’ chest or what it would be like to dip his tongue into the crease of his collarbones and chase the beads of sweat that drip down his stomach. What it would be like to have Louis beneath him and inside him and all around him.

Harry bites his bicep to keep from calling out as he comes. He can hear the exact moment Louis comes, too, a sharp, quick moan sounding from the stall over. And then it’s quiet again.

He tries to steady his breathing. He still doesn’t know if Louis knows he’s here. But his body is trembling and the waves of pleasure are quickly transforming into deep shame and embarrassment. How can he look Louis in the eye _now_?

This is all his own fault, really. The torture. Harry could’ve had Louis. Could still have Louis, probably. But he had to go and make things messy, like he always does. And now that they’ve gotten off together, with Louis a potential unknowing participant, Harry is even more remiss to do anything about it. He feels like a fucking creep. 

In his defense, he had been wanking _first._

Harry hears the faucet running and keeps completely still until the bathroom door shuts, leaving him alone again. He exhales and leaves the stall to wash his hands, double checking that the coast is clear before he follows a few minutes later.

He finds Louis leaning against the bar and laughing with Luke, nursing a cold beer in his hand. He definitely looks looser, more relaxed and pliant than he had before. His cheeks are tinted red and Harry can feel the blood rush to his own face, because he knows exactly where that blush came from. 

Louis turns when Harry approaches, eyes twinkling. “Luke was just about to take us backstage. You ready?”

There’s no hint in his smile, no look in his eyes that tells Harry whether or not he knows. Harry ignores the taste of metal in his mouth and nods.

The three of them slip through the crowd, with a few drunken concertgoers bumping into Harry and causing him to lose them at one point. He searches frantically for Louis among the heads, his heart racing, until he spots him and Luke pressed into the corner of the room scanning the room. 

Harry pushes through the mass of bodies until he makes it to them, and when Louis sees him, the smile is instantaneous. Beside him, Luke’s jaw clenches.

“Was afraid we lost you, curly.”

He shakes his head. “Never.”

Louis’ only response is to fucking beam at him, and Harry wants nothing more than to kiss the smile from his face.

It doesn’t take long for Luke to speak to the crew, and they’re about to step backstage when Louis holds Harry back, his hand splayed across his chest. The idea of having Louis’ hands on him, knowing that his hands had been on himself less than ten minutes ago, causes Harry’s stomach to burn. He looks at Louis with wide eyes. 

And then, like chaos reincarnate, Louis smirks at him, saying, “Your fly is down, by the way,” and starts bounding towards the back of the stage with Luke before Harry can collect his thoughts, or even get a word in. 

Instead, Harry is left breathless in the middle of the crowd, wondering what the fuck he’s supposed to do now.

+++

  
  


**Doncaster Rovers Claim Victory in Local Charity Match by Harry Styles**

_This past Thursday, December 3, the Holmes Chapel Hurricanes and Doncaster Rovers took to the field for a local charity match. The match was organized by local entrepreneur and philanthropist, Niall Horan and the proceeds will be going to renovating a local LGBT Youth Center._

_The Doncaster Rovers have a deep connection to LGBT issues, since their star midfielder and team captain, Louis Tomlinson, came out as one of the first openly gay players after being signed in 2015._

_In order to reach out to the local LGBT youth, Horan and Tomlinson arranged a meet-up with teens a part of their schools' LGBT clubs and provided each teen with free sideline tickets to the match._

_One teen who attended the match, Florence, says that seeing the game live was like nothing she'd ever experienced before, and that "it was nice to see someone representing the community out there on the field. There's not nearly enough LGBT representation in sports."_

_The match finished off with a score of 3-1, Rovers favor. Although the Hurricanes put up a fierce fight, the Rovers ultimately won._

_In-person tickets for the match reached maximum capacity within a matter of days, so many of the ticket sales had to be sold for a livestream experience instead. Over two thousand viewers attended virtually, in addition to the six-hundred fans in the stands._

_The earnings from the charity match totaled over £85,000 from ticket sales, merch sales, and donations. All of the proceeds will be directed towards the LGBT Youth Center, meaning that the real winners of the match are all of the teens who will be helped with this newly renovated space._


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas & New Year's Eve happen. So do other stuff.

Song: [ Nightmares by Easy Life ](https://youtu.be/4xN2gDi53ZY)

Harry is drunk. 

He’s leaning against the wall inside a stranger’s home in London, trying to focus his eyes on the clock hanging above the piano where Liam is currently playing a soft melody. He’s trying to figure out what time it is, though there’s really no point. He came here with Liam and will leave when Liam is ready. Harry closes his eyes and finishes his glass of advocaat. The absurdity of the past few days is still far too much for him to handle. So he drinks.

After the concert, Louis had driven Harry home. They didn’t talk about what had happened in the bathroom. Didn’t talk at all, really. Louis seemed content to hum along to the music and tap his fingers on the steering wheel as though nothing had changed. Despite the fact that everything had.

They had masturbated together, first of all. 

That’s not something anyone can ignore. And it had infuriated Harry that Louis was acting so nonchalant — yet he knew _he_ wasn’t going to be the one to break the ice. He hadn’t been the one who came into the bathroom and joined the other, whispering _Harry’s_ name into the air like a fucking prayer. And after Louis’ comment about Harry’s zipper, there was no doubt that he had known Harry was in there.

So, they didn’t talk. Louis dropped off Harry and went back to a hotel, or wherever he decided to stay for the night. Harry had originally thought of inviting Louis to stay in the guest room, but couldn’t handle the idea of Louis sleeping a room away — not after what happened — so he didn’t offer. 

Niall had called him the next morning from Ireland. They’d had a rather pleasant conversation and Harry said hello to Ava (the two of them seemed to be doing well together so far) and everything was fine. But after all other topics had been exhausted, Niall had decided to broach the Louis subject. 

_So, how’s Louis?_

_Fine._

_Still not going for it?_

_No, Niall. We’ve been over this._

_Yeah, yeah. You don’t wanna risk your friendship._

_Yup._

_I still think it’s stupid._

_I know you do._

_Well, how are you going to handle spending New Year’s with him?_

_What do you mean?_

_He invited all of us to his cabin for New Year's, remember? I just don’t see how you can make the whole friend charade continue when—_

_I never received an invite._

_I’m sure you did. He didn’t ask you himself?_

_No._

_I could’ve sworn—_

_I gotta go._

Harry is well aware that he’d acted like a drama queen in the moment, but all he’d been able to think about was how hurt he was that Louis hadn’t invited him. They had been hanging out for the past couple weeks, and Louis hadn’t brought it up once. Harry would remember if he had. There were no texts, no calls, no emails. No conversations about New Year’s at Louis’ cabin. Harry hadn’t even known that Louis _had_ a cabin.

And it fucking stung.

Liam plinks a few keys gently before descending into a festive, upbeat sonata, which does nothing to lift Harry’s spirits. He wants to take a baseball bat and smash the piano into bits and pieces. He wants to tear out the keys one by one. But Liam was gracious enough to invite him here — to this wonderful, glitzy Christmas party where Harry knows absolutely no one. The least he can do is behave.

Harry pushes off the wall and walks carefully towards the drinks table, attempting to appear more sober than he is. He’s already had three glasses of mulled wine and is looking forward to a second glass of advocaat. As he goes to pour it, however, the bottle slips out of Harry’s hand and he barely catches it before it can crash onto the hardwood floors. A couple nearby gasps, the middle-aged woman fucking clutching her chest as though the bottle is priceless or some shit. It may very likely be. But the reaction is still obnoxious. Harry rolls his eyes.

If Liam can sense Harry’s inebriation, he’s doing a wonderful job of ignoring it. 

There’s a tacky, plum loveseat beside the grand piano where Liam is playing. Harry sits down heavily, his replenished drink splashing over the sides of the glass and dripping onto the velvet cushion. 

“Whoops.”

Liam turns his head a fraction, plinking an A minor note. “You might want to get a glass of water.”

“But this tastes and feels so much better.” Harry retorts. His head is heavy and he can’t feel his toes.

“For now.” 

Harry snorts. “I don’t care about a hangover.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Right. Please enlighten me.”

Liam pauses and swivels to face Harry, his face stern. “Don’t be rude.”

“I’m not—”

“I invited you because I knew you needed a friend, but if you’re not going to take my advice or accept my help, there’s not much else I can do.”

The drink settles heavily in his stomach and Harry winces. “Sorry.”

Liam hums and presses down, hard, on another key. “You should get that glass of water. I want you to meet a few people. Sober.”

He says it like Harry doesn’t have a choice in the matter. And that’s fair. Liam had been trying to act like a good friend; Harry owed him the same courtesy. He doesn’t know why Liam sticks around him, if he’s honest. Harry is a mess. And based on what he knows about Liam, he is one of the more put together people in Harry’s life. Why he would ever choose to remain Harry’s friend is a mystery.

The couch tries to suck him in and Harry struggles to stand up, his free hand pushing against the back cushion until he can find his balance. Liam watches him and offers no help. Completely unamused.

Which is too bad, because Harry wants to laugh at everything right now.

He wants to laugh at the ugly, tacky furniture and the gaudy dresses and suits the partygoers are wearing; he wants to laugh at their mild attempts at polite conversation and their judgmental glances; and more than anything, he wants to laugh about how much he wishes he were with Louis right now.

Because that’s the fucking kicker, isn’t it?

He came to this party with Liam because the alternative would have been to sit at home and wallow alone in his misery. Or worse, give into the temptation to call Louis or drive to Louis’ house and have it out once and for all. Get everything out into the open and tear their relationship into pieces. And despite being angry and hurt, Harry still wants nothing more to see him. It’s pathetic.

He shakes the thoughts away. There’s no point in obsessing over it. Instead, he puts one foot in front of the other, staring at the scuffed tops of his Mary Janes and trying not to fall. There’s a faucet here somewhere, Harry just can’t find it. He bumps into a tall gentleman in a scarlet suit and almost topples over, but the man grabs at his elbow.

“Woah, there.” His accent is American, and for some reason, that makes Harry giggle.

A hand falls on Harry’s lower back and he looks over to see Liam by his side, face impassive but tense. “Sorry, George. He’s had a bit too much.”

The man, George, laughs. “Haven’t we all?”

“Come on, H.” Liam moves to guide Harry towards a room — _oh_ , so that’s where the kitchen is. 

“Okie doke.”

“Liam. Let’s talk,” George says. Almost like it’s a command, not a suggestion.

Harry can feel Liam’s hand tense. “Is later alright? I have to take care of my friend here.”

George’s eyebrows shoot up. “Friend? Oh, I thought—”

“He needs water.” Liam pushes Harry towards the kitchen and Harry trips over his own feet. The rest of the partygoers watch them as Liam ushers them through the door, waiting until it’s shut to lean heavily against it and release a long breath.

Harry leans over the island and grabs at a banana. “That was weird.”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“I’m the king of avoiding shit. I get it.”

Liam narrows his eyes. “I’m not avoiding anything.”

Harry bites into the banana. “So you didn't run away from that guy?”

“I ran away because you’re a drunk idiot.”

“Heyyyy. I may be drunk, but I’m not an idiot.”

Liam snorts. Instead of answering, he walks around the island towards the faucet and fills a tall glass of water, handing it to Harry with a stern look. “Really? So you took my advice then?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Harry takes a sip, nearly moaning at the cool, refreshing taste.

“You’re still thinking too much, and you’re still pushing Louis away.”

Harry opens his mouth and then closes it. “How do you know?”

“I don’t have to be a psychic to know that you’re miserable right now.” He rolls his eyes. “And it’s a misery of your own making, might I add.”

“It’s not.”

“Oh?” 

“I swear it, Louis—” He stops himself, cheeks burning.

“Louis, what?”

Harry shakes his head, pressing his mouth against the rim of the glass. He can’t tell Liam. He can’t tell _anyone_. It’s so fucking awkward. He still can’t believe that the bathroom incident had happened. How could anyone else be expected to?

“It’s nothing.”

Liam stares at him. It’s the same stare every time — intense and burning, like he’s digging beneath layers of skin and pulling out Harry’s secrets with his bare hands. “You had sex with him.”

Harry’s cheeks burn even hotter.

“I knew it!” Liam’s smile is smug, briefly reminding him of Niall’s. God, his friends are the worst.

“We didn’t have sex.”

“You kissed?”

“No.”

“I’m so confused.”

Harry scoffs. “You’re a psychic.”

“Doesn’t make me a mind reader. Honestly, Harry. What do you think a psychic is?”

He ignores the jab in favor of taking a long, _long_ drink of water. He can’t even look Liam in the eye. “We sort of . . . got off together.” 

Liam goes to speak, but Harry cuts him off.

“But like, we didn’t get off in the same place? We were in different bathroom stalls.”

There’s a silence that follows where Liam is visibly trying to hold back his laughter and Harry glares at him, waiting for the moment to pass. Eventually, Liam clears his throat. “So, ah, you didn’t actually see each other?”

“No.” He sighs mournfully. “But I could hear him, and I bet he could hear me.”

“And did he know you were there?” Harry punches his arm, and Liam whines in protest. “It’s a fair question!”

“I was there first! He came in and started wanking with me. And he said _my_ name.”

Liam bursts into a short laugh before covering his mouth. “Well that’s quite the conundrum.”

Harry groans, running a jerky hand through his hair. He knew Liam would take the piss out of his situation, but if anyone were to have any sage advice, Harry was hoping it would have been him. 

As though sensing his frustration, Liam’s eyes soften. “Haz, I told you before to follow your heart. I don’t know why you can’t tell him how you feel. You both like each other.”

“Yeah, but it’s all complicated now. If I tell him how I feel he’s gonna think I’m an indecisive prick.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.”

Liam stares, unconvinced. “Call him.”

“No. He’s the one who made things awkward.”

“Call him.”

“He didn’t even invite me to his cabin, Liam.”

Liam raises a brow. “You mean you didn’t get the text in the _group_ chat?”

Harry balks. There’s no way that there was a text in the group chat. Then again, Harry had forgotten that there was a group chat to begin with. He’d started ignoring it after Zayn and Niall had ignited an emoji war . . . and he’d muted it. 

Fuck. 

He scrolls through the chat and finds Louis’ text not too far down:

_Hey lads!! Just thought I’d invite you all to my cabin out in Lancaster for New Year’s Eve!! It’ll be just us lads. We’ll have a grand time. How does that sound? x_

Niall, Zayn, and Liam had all agreed to be there. Nobody had even noticed that Harry hadn’t responded. Nobody had thought to tell him until now. He feels like a complete idiot.

“What the fuck, Liam? You didn’t notice I hadn’t responded?”

Liam shrugs. “We all thought he’d asked you in person. You’ve been together nearly every day.”

“Yeah, well. He didn’t.”

“He might’ve thought your lack of a response was your answer.”

Oh. Fucking wonderful. If Harry felt bad before, he feels even worse now. Not only did he (unintentionally) ignore Louis’ invitation, but Louis had probably taken his silence as a denial, as though it was normal and expected for Harry to do something like that. 

Jesus, had he really been acting like that much of an asshole? His heart starts thumping and he’s getting dizzy again — but not in a pleasant, drunk way. The room is tilting forward, pulling Harry downwards.

“Call him.” 

For once, Harry takes Liam’s advice. He can’t continue ignoring Louis when he knows that he was the one who fucked up first. Awkwardness be damned. He can’t go to bed with thoughts of Louis having such low expectations of him reeling through his mind. Liam gives him some privacy, standing right outside the kitchen door like a bodyguard.

Louis picks up on the second ring. “Harry?” 

“Hi.”

“Hi.” There’s a slightly confused tone to his voice. Like he had never expected Harry to call. “I can’t talk for long. I’m rather busy at the moment. What’s going on?”

Of course he’s busy. It’s the day before Christmas Eve. He’s probably with his family, spending quality time and eating Christmas foods and watching Christmas movies and being an overall normal, wonderful person while Harry sits here and sulks and drinks, being a decidedly not-so-wonderful person. “Oh. We can talk later.”

Louis sighs. “You called me for a reason.”

And maybe it’s the impatience in his voice, or something else, but Harry prickles. “Nevermind.”

“Harry.”

“You’re clearly busy. Don’t let me intrude.”

Louis is silent for a beat, and then, “What did I do now?”

Harry wants to tear his hair out and scream, because it seems like every time he’s on the phone with Louis, the conversation somehow goes awry. He doesn’t know what it is. Maybe it’s because they can’t see one another, can’t read the other’s face. As much as Harry has tried, he’s never been able to school his facial features and hide his emotions. But emotions are nearly impossible to translate over the phone.

Louis takes Harry’s silence the wrong way. “I told you we could be friends. So why are you still so intent on being like this?”

“You don’t understand—” 

“Well, you don’t make it clear. You’re not so innocent, Harry.”

“I’m trying.”

“No, you’re not. _I’ve_ tried really hard to be understanding. But I don’t deserve this. Do you even realize what you’ve been doing? It’s not fair.” He pauses, waiting for Harry to respond, but Harry’s tongue is too heavy to move. This isn’t what he wanted. Not at all. Louis sighs. “Have a happy Christmas, Harry.”

The line goes dead and Harry is left staring at his phone like it’s burnt him. It may as well have. He’s hot all over and he can’t get enough air. Liam is in the room before Harry can even speak, his brows furrowed and lips pouting.

“That didn’t sound like the conversation I was hoping you’d have.”

The tears are stinging Harry’s eyes and the world around him is drowning. Liam’s face distorts like he’s stuck inside a fishbowl. Harry blinks, but the tears keep coming. Burning his eyes. Burning his face. Singeing his clothes and leaving scars on his skin.

“I need a drink.”

“I don’t think—”

“Please, Liam.” He knows that he shouldn’t, but the sadness is clawing its way up and into his throat. He’s got that feeling again — like he’s sinking further into his own grave and suffocating beneath the dirt. He’s so alone. So scared. So unbelievably tired. And he really needs a fucking drink.

Liam’s eyes are sad, but he nods. “Alright. I’ll get you a drink.”

As soon as Liam leaves the room, Harry slides onto the floor, the sobs racking his body and making him hiccup. He knows the partygoers can hear him, are likely judging him, but he doesn’t give a shit. Nobody can make him feel bad for this. His splintered heart cracks a little bit more. There’s not enough oxygen in the world to fill his lungs and shake away the pain in his chest. 

An alert goes off on his phone. It’s midnight. Happy fucking Christmas Eve. And — oh. 

Happy birthday, Louis Tomlinson.

Harry chokes on air. 

+++

He doesn’t end up meeting Liam’s friends or whoever Liam had wanted him to meet. Harry feels bad, because they end up driving all the way back to Holmes Chapel in the middle of the night, Liam’s hands tight on the steering wheel.

“I’m sorry.” Harry mumbles.

Liam sighs. “It’s fine.”

They spend the rest of the car ride in silence, those words echoing and growing and filling in the space between them. Harry doesn’t know why it’s so difficult for him to accept help from other people. He doesn’t. 

All he knows how to do is destroy.

+++

Having Gemma home with him and his mum is refreshing. Harry knows it’s silly, because his sister doesn’t live that far away. But around the holidays, when all three of them are under one roof, sitting on one couch, and cuddled beneath one blanket watching reruns of National Lampoon’s, Harry realizes that the distance between them has increased in more ways than one. 

He misses them during the rest of the year. Even though his mum lives ten minutes away from him, and Gemma only lives forty minutes — give or take — he misses living together as a family. The holidays are the only times they seem to come together briefly before shooting off in separate directions once again.

Maybe he’s simply nostalgic for his childhood, for better times. Happier times. 

And Harry is trying his best to enjoy this time with them. But ever since his phone call with Louis last night — on his fucking birthday, of all days — Harry’s been a bit preoccupied. After their argument on the phone and the reminder about Louis’ birthday, and after his initial breakdown, Harry had texted him a _I’m sorry x_ and _Happy birthday_ text, because he couldn’t stand the thought of _not_ saying happy birthday to Louis. 

He still hasn’t gotten a response.

Gemma and Anne have noticed but haven’t said a word. Instead they’ve tried their hardest to distract Harry: Anne helped him bake cranberry scones when he’d arrived this morning (one look at his face had told her all she needed to know, and she had rushed him inside with an arm around his shoulder, already pulling out the ingredients before he could take off his coat); Gemma had played Scrabble with him over lunch; and all three of them had gone for a long walk, Anne and Gemma filling in the gaps of silence while Harry trudged alongside them. 

Now, Gemma is pressed between Harry and their mum, her head on Anne’s shoulder and her toes tucked underneath Harry’s legs. They’ve each got a mug of hot chocolate and a bowl of popcorn is set on Gemma’s lap so they can snack as they watch the Griswold family’s shenanigans. It’s one of those traditions that never dies out, no matter how old they get or how wide the distance grows. There is always time for this. 

The best part is listening to Gemma’s and Anne’s idle chatter. Harry’s never been one to talk a lot during movies, but he loves when they do it. The conversation strays from Gemma’s work to the latest celebrity gossip to Anne’s book club to the bloke Gemma has started dating recently. Harry has been listening only partly up to this point, but at the word ‘dating,’ his eyebrows shoot up.

“A boyfriend?”

Gemma scoffs. “If you want to put a label on it.”

“Well, what else would you call him?”

“Of course he’s my fucking boyfriend, Hazza. I’m only teasing.”

Harry ignores the jab and nods, keeping his eyes glued to the television screen. “Right. Congratulations. When do I get to meet him?”

She rolls her eyes. “So you can scare him off?”

“Of course not.”

She grabs a handful of popcorn. “Maybe New Year’s.”

Ah. New Year’s. Harry had almost forgotten. The conversation had _almost_ succeeded at pulling his mind away from Louis, but at the mention of New Year’s, everything comes rushing back. 

His emotions must be written on his face, because Anne pauses the movie and the two of them turn towards him, their legs crossed and faces serious. Harry gulps. 

“Haz,” Gemma says. 

“Darling.” Anne reaches her arm behind Gemma and squeezes Harry’s shoulder.

Harry shakes his head. If he tries to speak, the tears will come. And they won’t stop. He doesn’t want to ruin Christmas, or burden his family with his problems. Especially when they were problems he’d created for himself.

Gemma crawls out from underneath the blanket and sets the popcorn on the coffee table. “It’s present time.”

Harry’s brows furrow. “We never open until Christmas morning.”

“Traditions can change.” Anne smiles at him, moving so that she’s filling in the empty spot left behind by Gemma, her warm shoulder pressing against his own.

“Besides, I’m dying to know what you got me,” Gemma says, returning to the couch with an armful of presents and spilling them onto the coffee table.

Harry’s face flushes. He hadn’t been able to afford expensive gifts this year, so he’d settled on sentiment. He figured it would be fine — the Styles family has never been big on flash, instead opting for substance — but the reality of his financial situation always made him nervous, regardless. His mum and sister didn’t need to know how little he made at the paper.

“It’s not much,” he says.

Gemma smiles softly. “Haz, you always give the best gifts.”

“That’s right. You do, love.” Anne pinches his cheeks. 

Gemma passes out the presents. Before Gary had died, it had always been him passing out the presents, wearing a Santa hat and ensuring everyone had a gift before they were allowed to open. Before that, it had been Anne. But after Gary’s death, she hadn’t been able to stomach the idea of taking back the role. So Gemma had stepped in. 

His sister — despite her living far away — was always stepping in these days. After everything that Harry had been through the past few years, it had gotten harder and harder for him to be the strong one. (Not that he ever had been. That was Gemma. She was the strong one.) And at times like this, Harry found himself thankful for her. 

Anne gasps when she unwraps Gemma’s gift — a silk blue bathrobe and a pair of suede slippers to match. It’s perfect. Harry’s stomach sinks even further as she reaches over to hug Gemma, saying how much she loves it. His gift is set beside her, still wrapped but looking small in comparison. He has the urge to snatch it away and promise her a new one, but Anne is already going for it.

“I thought you might like some more recent photos in the house . . .” He starts to explain while she tears at the wrapping paper, revealing a platinum photo frame with various photos of the three of them cut together to create a collage: Harry and Gemma smiling together at Harry’s uni graduation; Gemma laughing as she opens a bottle of champagne to celebrate her recent promotion; Anne, Gemma, and Harry squished together on one side of the table during one of their many lunches; a picture of the three of them plus Gary at their very last Christmas together as a whole family. 

Her fingers trace along the edges of the frame, staring at the photos with reverence. Without saying a word, she pulls Harry into a bone crushing hug. Hot tears spill onto his neck and she’s whispering thank you’s and I love you’s and “My sweet, sweet boy” over and over again. 

Harry tries to keep his own tears at bay, instead focusing on his own presents after she lets go.

His mum’s gift to him is a new camera, complete with a carrying case and two additional lenses. Harry hasn’t had a functional camera in years; during his uni days, he had been obsessed with photography. Always talking about working as both a writer and photographer for a newspaper, if they would allow it. That dream had died years ago, but seeing the box brings tears to his eyes. 

“Oh, Haz. Do you not like it? I can return it.” Anne’s eyes crinkle with worry.

“No.” He chokes. “I love it.”

He sets it aside gingerly. Not wanting to break it.

Gemma has already unwrapped their mum’s present to her (a new laptop so she could work on her website from home) and is currently staring at the pair of earrings Harry had chosen for her: a pair of Lily Pulitzer coral cove earrings he’d found in a vintage thrift shop for half the original price. When he had seen them, his immediate thought was how much Gemma would love them and he had made the purchase on impulse. Harry gnaws away at his lip, waiting for her reaction.

“These are the most beautiful earrings I’ve ever fucking seen.” 

Harry releases a breath.

She looks at him, eyes shining. “You got me these _and_ a PopUp painting ticket?”

Harry nods. “I remember you talking about doing one a while back and how much you enjoyed it. And those earrings made me think of you.”

“Shit. Now I feel like shite for what I got you.”

He fiddles with the pink ribbon on the bag Gemma had presented him with. “I’m sure I’ll love whatever it is.”

“It’s just—I didn’t spend a lot—”

“Neither did I, Gems. It’s okay.” He removes the white tissue paper and removes the first item, which appears to be a soft, cotton white shirt with red lips embroidered over the chest and the words ‘save the drama for your mama’ fitting neatly within. Harry recognizes it immediately. It’s the shirt that Rachel wears in one of his all-time favorite Friends episodes. He traces his fingers along the embroidery.

“This is insane. You made this?” Harry can tell it’s Gemma’s work. She’d gotten into embroidery only a couple months ago, so there were a few mistakes here and there, but that only made him love it more. It was unique. One-of-a-kind. 

Gemma nods and points to the bag. “There’s more.”

Harry pulls out three new bottles of nail polish (light blue, pink, and yellow) and a new pair of white vans with pink laces. His heart constricts. He’s been meaning to replace his old yellowing ones — so threadbare and overworn that there are now holes forming at the toes — but he kept forgetting. 

His voice catches. “Thanks, Gem.”

“Will you please throw out those old ratty ones now? I can’t stand to see them.”

Harry laughs and nods. “Consider them gone.”

The rest of the night passes by without incident. They return to the couch and cuddle beneath their shared blanket, closer than before, and resume watching National Lampoon’s. Gemma goes on to recite the entire movie by heart, complete with voices. Harry laughs so hard that hot chocolate almost shoots out of his nose. Anne helps him fiddle with his new camera and Gemma set up her new laptop; Gemma sits on the floor with Harry and paints his toes yellow and his fingers blue; and Anne sets the picture frame on the coffee table and changes into her brand new robe and slippers. 

Despite a lingering sadness, the absence of Gary still on their minds, Harry can admit it’s one of the better Christmas Eve’s that they’ve had in a while. 

Christmas Day itself is chaotic, but in the best way possible. Harry’s extended family comes by, filling out the kitchen and sitting room, playing Frank Sinatra holiday tunes and dancing with glasses of bubbly and cider in their hands. (And Harry tries his hand at _not_ drinking. He does pretty well. Aside from one glass of cider.) Their younger cousins run around with their Christmas pajamas on and their grandparents hand him and Gemma fifty pounds each with a wink. Harry and Anne prepare Christmas supper, Harry working on the roast potatoes, stuffing, yorkshire pudding, and mince pies while his mum focuses on seasoning and basting the turkey. 

There’s a rhythm to the madness that lulls Harry’s mind into silence. He doesn't have time to focus on his problems right now. His family is here and it’s the holidays and everyone is having a great time. No reason to ruin it.

But he does send Louis a _Happy Christmas xx_ text. Along with Niall, Liam, and Zayn. His phone immediately starts buzzing with their holiday wishes, but Harry locks his screen before he can look at the names. He doesn’t want to see whether Louis responds or not.

The only awkward moment of the day presents itself during Christmas supper, when Harry’s grandmother asks him if he’s got a boyfriend these days. Harry almost chokes on his mouthful of stuffing, his cousin who’s sat beside him patting his back helpfully. 

“No, er, I don’t.” He responds.

Her mouth turns down. “What a pity. You’ll find the right one eventually.”

Anne saves him then, clearing her throat and asking whether people are ready for dessert, but a metallic taste is already filling Harry’s mouth. It shouldn’t affect him so much. His grandmother asks the same question every year. He should’ve been prepared for it. It’s the fact that he _could_ have a boyfriend right now, but he’s too stupid and too messed up to do anything right with Louis. 

He checks his phone before bed that night, tired and low-spirited — not really expecting anything — and notices a single message from Louis:

_Happy Christmas x_

Harry’s heart cartwheels. Louis responded. And that means there’s hope, right? He has to believe there’s still hope. He _has_ to believe he can make things right. Maybe. Eventually. 

+++

“Okay, spill,” Gemma says. Her feet are propped in Harry’s lap and he’s painting her toes a dark shade of green. The telly is playing in the background. There’s a Rovers’ match about to start, and Harry is trying his hardest to appear indifferent.

He pauses. “Spill what?”

“Whatever happened between you and Tomlinson.”

“Nothing happened.”

Gemma snorts and unwraps a chocolate coin. “Yeah, just like nothing happened before the charity match. Or after.”

“Gem—” 

“Look, you don’t have to talk about it. But you’ve been moping around the house for the past few days and I want you to know that I’m here to listen, alright?”

“I know.” He focuses on painting her big toe.

“I’m only saying it’s toxic bottling it all up.” Gemma wiggles her feet, trying to make him look at her.

“I’ve been thinking about seeing a therapist.” 

If Gemma is shocked, she doesn’t show it. Instead she smiles and says, “That’s great, Hazza. I’m proud of you. Everyone should see one, in my opinion. I talk to mine at least once a month.”

Harry’s eyes flick to her face. “You see a therapist?”

“Yeah, I mean, after Gary passed I thought it would be best. She helped me process my grief.”

“And now?”

Gemma shrugs, taking a bite of another chocolate coin. “Now I talk about normal problems and every day stress.”

“And that helps?”

“Immensely.” She turns towards the television and unmutes it. The teams are filing onto the field, ready to begin the game. Harry finds himself staring as Louis runs after the rest of his team, looking disheveled and drained. There are dark rings beneath his eyes. “Oof, Tomlinson looks a wreck. You two must have really had it out.”

Harry can’t look away. “Um, we had a bit of a row, but I didn’t think—I didn’t know he was that upset.”

He doesn’t know if he’s the reason for Louis’ appearance. There could be any number of explanations for it. And Harry doesn’t want to be self-centered or shallow enough to think that Louis’ moods revolve around him, but it _is_ cause for concern. Whether Harry is the reason or not, Louis doesn’t look good. 

“What happened?”

Harry finishes the last toe and twists the cap of the nail polish back on, not meeting Gemma’s eyes. “I mean, I haven’t been the most forthcoming with him.”

“What do you mean?”

Without the polish to keep his hands occupied, Harry starts to fidget. “He told me I’m hot and cold with him, and I don’t make things clear. He’s frustrated. Which is understandable. I-I hate that I’ve been acting like a prick, but sometimes I can’t help it.”

Gemma sits up, wrapping her arms around her legs and staring at Harry’s profile. “Hot and cold how?”

“Like, we’ll be having fun one moment, and then he’ll try to get serious, and it’s like—I don’t know—I just close up and act distant. I don’t mean to. And every time I do try to share my feelings, they don’t—they don’t translate well, or he misinterprets.”

“Sounds like you _both_ have some communication issues.”

Harry shakes his head. “He’s been open about how he feels. It’s all me.”

“Yeah but, has he listened to you when you do try to explain?” Gemma presses. 

“I think he’s afraid of getting burned again. I already rejected him once.”

“Well, you’ve been burned more than anyone I know. I think it’s huge that you’re trying at all with him. That’s progress.” 

Harry watches as the ball is set up and both teams get ready for kickoff. “Key word: trying. And failing spectacularly.”

“Well, if it’s not meant to be, it’s not meant to be.” Gemma flips her hair over her shoulder. She’s wearing the earrings Harry had gotten for her.

The words sound _wrong_ to Harry. Ever since he’d met Louis, it was as though the world made sense. Louis terrified him, but he was also a source of comfort for Harry. And ever since the whole soulmate thing—well, Harry had resisted it at first, and he still doesn’t know if he fully believes it, but he knows that Louis makes him feel right. More right than anyone else ever has. 

And yet he fucked it all up.

Harry licks his lips. Louis is running across the pitch slower than normal, his movements sluggish and jerky. “Do you believe in soulmates?” 

Gemma scrunches her nose. “I don’t know. I’m not superstitious.”

“Do you think they could be real?”

“I guess so. But Harry, I don’t think you should worry about stuff like that. Worry about what you _do_ know, and focus on the facts.”

“Niall and Liam say I should follow my heart.” Harry mumbles. Louis receives a pass, dribbles for a moment, and immediately gets the ball stolen from him. His body is curled inward like he’s caving in on himself and Harry wants nothing more than to be there, screaming his support from the sidelines. 

“Do both.”

His sister is the practical one. Harry used to be the one with his heads in the clouds. It took heartbreak after heartbreak for his feet to touch the ground. And now that he’s grounded, Harry’s become stuck. There’s no in-between: either he loses his footing and floats away or he remains right where he is, unable to move forward. She makes it sound so easy. 

Harry sits back into the cushions, ignoring Gemma’s worried eyes and instead watching as the Rovers begin to lose. It’s not just Louis whose game is off — it’s the entire team. Maybe they have picked up on Louis’ melancholy and are all being affected or something happened behind the scenes, but the match doesn’t look good for them. 

In the grand scheme of things, this match isn’t important. The Rovers have enough wins so far that a couple losses won’t change their current rank nor their projected ability to play in the Championship this year. But with each pass that’s stolen, every goal that is missed, Harry can see the defeat in their shoulders and the fatigue in their eyes. 

Louis is the worst of them all. He’s unfocused. Out of tune with his surroundings. There’s one point where a member of the opposing team rams into Louis’ shoulder and he topples over like an unstable Jenga tower. And then he just . . . lies on the ground for a full minute before his coach comes over, mouth drawn tight and eyes full of confusion.

They start to argue once the coach drags him to the sidelines — well, it’s mostly the coach arguing while Louis stands there, eyes trained on his shoes. Harry’s heart aches. 

Gemma whistles. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen them play this badly.”

As if Harry didn’t have to feel any worse than he already did, Gemma’s words are a sucker punch to the throat. God. He’s a piece of shit.

Louis re-enters the field, trying harder to grab the ball and make passes and shoot goals, but it’s obvious his heart isn’t in it. And it’s frustrating. Because . . . all Harry can do is sit and watch as Louis continues to fumble on the pitch. He doesn’t know if _he’s_ the cause — but just the thought of it makes him queasy. 

“Just think about what I said, yeah?” Gemma watches him watch Louis with a neutral, but concerned expression.

“Yeah, alright.”

Harry mentally adds Gemma to his list of advice he has yet to listen to.

+++

Harry’s first therapy session is a few days later. Brenda, his therapist, had a last-minute opening when Harry had called and he took it eagerly. Anne tags along with him (“For moral support, honey. I’ll be right here.”) and Harry won’t admit it aloud, but he’s incredibly grateful to have her in the other room. He can stare at the door and imagine her on the opposite side. A warm, safe presence.

The session itself isn’t much. Brenda explains that since it’s his first session, she only wants to know how he’s feeling now and asks him to share a little bit of his history. He gives her a bare minimum summary, because he figures they’ll go over it all more in-depth later on: his happy, unproblematic childhood; his relationship with his mum and sister; coming to terms with his sexuality during puberty; his experiences at uni; losing Gary; his (somewhat co-dependent) friendship with Niall; and ending with his and Noah’s breakup. 

He doesn’t talk much about Noah. But he knows that Brenda knows something happened there. Harry stutters on his name and pauses, causing Brenda to scribble in her notepad. Probably something along the lines of: ‘Noah - trauma?’ or some shit. He doesn’t know how therapists take notes. That’s what _he_ would write, though.

She asks him a few straightforward questions: What are your symptoms? What brought you to therapy? What do you feel is wrong in your life?

The last one stumps him. Nothing is wrong, _exactly_. Yet he knows nothing is right, either. He’s stuck somewhere in the middle, a purgatory inside his mind; he’s gone so deep and gotten so lost that he can’t find the exit. He explains it as best he can, and Brenda nods her head as though she understands.

Harry knows she doesn’t.

They (or rather, Brenda) decide that Harry should start coming to therapy once a week for the foreseeable future. He can’t say that he’s surprised. Harry had known that he had issues to work through, but her suggestion solidifies it. He leaves her office with an awkward smile and a sweaty handshake and with promises of _See you next week_.

His mum is waiting in the lobby for him once he’s finished. She curls her arm around his shoulders and squeezes while they exit the building. “How did it go?”

Harry twists his lips. “I think it went fine.”

He doesn’t mention how much lighter he feels already. He doesn’t know why he’d been so hesitant to come before. Maybe it had been the stigma that came attached with therapy, or his own stubborn unwillingness to open up to others. But now that he’s started, he doesn’t want to stop. He’s taken one step closer towards getting better. A tiny, fractional step. But it’s a step nonetheless.

+++

New Year’s Eve arrives much too soon. Harry’s been trying not to think about it — has mostly been staying with his mum and talking to Niall on the phone and visiting Liam at his shop. None of it helps.

All of the boys will be joining Louis in Lancaster to spend the next few days at his cabin, celebrating the new year and having a ‘grand time.’ Once Niall lands in Manchester, he and Liam will be heading out together. They had asked Harry multiple times if he would change his mind, but after everything that’s happened, he doesn’t want to ruin the holiday. He can’t do that to Louis.

So it’s a surprise (and also not) when Niall and Liam show up to his mum’s house, standing at the front door with their arms crossed and staring at Harry with expectant expressions. He doesn’t fight it when Liam yanks him out of the house and drags him to the red Jeep parked out front, or when Niall goes into his childhood bedroom to pack his bags with clothes and God knows what else. Harry should’ve seen this coming, if he’s honest. But he _has_ been rather daft lately.

He tries not to think about the minutes ticking by or how each mile brings him one mile closer to Louis and how being closer to Louis makes his heart ache. He tries not to think about coming face-to-face with Louis or what he’s going to say when he gets there. 

But Niall and Liam won’t talk to him, instead content to sit in silence. Which means naturally, Harry has nothing else to occupy his mind.

The drive is long and boring. He tries to calm himself by staring at the trees and counting cars, though there aren’t many. If they were going anywhere else, the traffic might be heavier, but they make it to Lancaster in record time. Harry has only ever been here once, when he was a toddler maybe, and his mum had taken him and his sister to Lancaster Castle for a day trip. All he remembers is running through the stone hallways, his giggles echoing while his mum chased after him. 

But the cabin is the exact opposite of the castle. Whereas the castle is massive and surrounded by open space, Louis’ cabin is shrouded by sycamore trees and appears about the size of a regular house. There are two stories spotted with big, open windows that look out towards a glittering lake. The entirety of the outside is paneled with a light wood — maybe cedar — and a deck wraps around the entire building. From a first glance, it’s exactly what Harry had imagined when Louis had mentioned owning a cabin. It suits him.

Niall whistles. “Mr. Tommo has taste.”

Liam takes this as an opportunity to look back towards Harry. “You’ll do fine, H. Louis doesn’t hate you. Quite the opposite. Just follow our advice and you’ll be fine.”

It’s freaky how Liam somehow knows what to say at all times, almost more so than Niall, who has known Harry for literal years. But Harry nods. “Thanks, Li.”

Niall reaches back and squeezes his hand. “You two will work it out.”

That’s easy for them to say. Love seems to have fallen into their laps without any struggle or drama. Harry’s beginning to think that there’s something wrong with _them_ , and not him. Nothing comes that easily. Nothing.

When Louis opens the door with a smile, Harry briefly believes that things are okay, but then he notices Harry and the smile freezes. And it becomes clear that things are very much not okay.

Niall pats Louis on the arm and squeezes past him, shaking off his coat. “Thanks for having us, Tommo. This place is sick.”

Liam follows Niall inside, smiling warmly at Louis and presenting him with a bottle of red wine before disappearing into the foyer. Louis accepts the bottle without a word or a glance in Liam’s direction, instead opting to stare at Harry with conflicted eyes. 

“Er, I’m sorry I never responded to your initial invitation.” Harry starts, stuffing his hands into his jacket. “I sort of, well, I had the group chat muted because of Niall and Zayn’s emoji war, and I forgot to check it, so I didn’t see until it was too late. And I feel like a prick about it, and about fighting on your birthday. So, um, yeah. Sorry for showing up out of the blue.”

He doesn’t mention how Niall and Liam had kidnapped him and brought him here against his will — he doesn’t think that would help the situation at all. 

Louis stares at him and Harry tries to ignore the cold penetrating his bones. The bottle of wine is being strangled and Harry wonders whether Louis is imagining it as his neck. “Okay. Uh, thanks.”

Harry nods, but Louis hasn’t moved. “Um, is it alright if I come in?”

That seems to snap Louis out of it. He stumbles to the side to make room. “Right. Sorry.”

Harry squeezes by with an awkward smile, careful to keep their bodies from touching. “No worries.”

He shrugs off his coat, hangs it up where Niall and Liam’s are, and places his shoes neatly on the shoe rack beneath. The inside of the cabin is a welcome distraction from Louis’ eyes burning into the back of his head, and Harry takes the opportunity to follow the sound of Niall’s laugh into the sitting room. A large stone fireplace takes up half of one wall, a fire burning slow and steady in the hearth; the walls and floors are made up of the same dark wood, yet the massive windows make the space more open and less claustrophobic than it would be otherwise. 

The room itself can only be described as cozy. In all honesty, it sort of reminds Harry of Louis’ flat. The sitting room opens up directly into the kitchen, following a simple, yet tasteful color scheme of blue and white to pop against the darker backdrop. There’s a row of bookcases on the wall across from the staircase leading upstairs, each shelf organized by color. The kitchen is small, equipped with appliances that date back to the sixties, a small island with stools acting as a makeshift barrier between the two rooms. 

Liam stands at one of the bookcases, while Niall reclines back on the navy blue couch, his arms behind his head and a smile on his face. “Did I mention how sick this place is?”

Louis’ laugh sounds from behind Harry, making him jump. “Yeah, you did. But I’ll take it.”

“Where’s Zayn?” Niall asks, glancing not-so-subtly at Liam.

Without looking up, Liam responds. “He should be here soon.”

“Oh, yeah? How do you know?” Louis sidles up alongside Harry and rests his hip against the wall. They don’t make eye contact.

“I, er, we text.” Even from this distance, Harry catches the tint of pink on his cheeks.

“I bet you do.” Niall cackles, and Liam raises the book in his hand as a threat. Niall only laughs harder.

Louis snorts. “Great, well, that fixes one problem. You two can share a bedroom. I only have three.”

Liam’s blush deepens, but he mumbles a thank you, attention returned to the book in his hands. Niall raises an eyebrow at Louis. “Does that mean I get my own?”

“Ah.” 

Harry knows that Louis’ eyes are on him again, as though trying to gauge his reaction, or maybe ask a question — he doesn’t know. He can’t fucking read Louis sometimes. 

Harry shuffles his feet, but attempts to sound casual. “Aww, Ni. You don’t want to cuddle with me?”

Niall looks between him and Louis. “I’m fine on my own.”

“You sure?” 

“Yup.”

Fucking wanker.

Louis' voice is soft beside Harry, so only he can hear. “I can sleep on the couch.”

Harry turns to look at him, eyes wide. “Not a chance. This is your place. I’m the one intruding.”

“You’re not intruding.”

“You’re not sleeping on the couch.” 

Niall groans from across the room. “God, you two are insufferable. Haven’t you shared a bed before?”

Both of them blush at that. Yes, they had shared a bed before. But that was when Louis was drunk and sad and Harry was half-asleep and it was the middle of the night and they didn’t talk about it. That was before the Bathroom Incident. Now, the mere thought of sleeping next to Louis sounds like torture.

But Harry isn’t about to say any of that aloud. “Yeah, alright.”

Louis looks at him as though he can’t believe his ears. “As long as you’re sure.”

“It’s not a problem.” 

Turns out, it’s a huge fucking problem.

The bedroom he’s sharing with Louis has a full-sized bed and nothing else. When Louis directs him inside to drop his bags off, Harry is speechless. The rest of the room is much like the main parts of the cabin: accented with a dark blue bedspread and a white bed frame and white pillows, a white and gray sheepskin rug spread out in the center of the floor. Opposite the bed is a sliding glass door that leads out onto the wooden deck and has a clear view of the icy blue water. 

Harry absolutely loves it. But the bed is a problem. 

As if reading Harry’s mind, Louis says, “Sorry about the bed. I keep meaning to upgrade. All of the mattresses are that size. If it’s a problem—” 

“No. It’s fine.” 

They both know he’s lying, but like with everything else, they don’t talk about it.

+++

Zayn arrives right as the snow begins to fall, heavy and thick and sticking to the ground. His previously platinum blonde hair has been dyed a pastel lavender and he hugs everyone in hello, though his hug lingers for Liam. They all sit around the fireplace drinking hot whiskey and cider and pretend to watch a movie on the telly; but in reality they are all watching the flurries outside. Winter, for the past few years, has been dry and bleak. The snow they’ve been getting this year is a miracle. But the fact that it’s _sticking_ is pure magic.

The ending credits are scrolling across the screen when Niall makes the suggestion. “I’d love to have a snowball fight. It’s been a long time since we got good snow.”

Louis shoots a worried glance at Zayn. “It’s a bit cold outside.”

Zayn snorts, downing his third glass of whiskey. “I’m hot-blooded. Let’s go.”

The snow has stopped falling when they make it out, an inch of fresh white powder crunching beneath their boots. Zayn and Louis are the last to leave the cabin, and Harry tries not to notice how Louis frets over Zayn’s complete lack of layering — despite him having two sweatshirts thrown on over a long-sleeved tee. Zayn swats his hand away and Louis pouts in a way that has Harry’s stomach flipping. Liam snakes his arm around Zayn’s shoulders, which Zayn decidedly does _not_ swat away. The two share a small smile while Louis pretends to vomit. 

“Oh, this is perfect.” Niall scoops up a ball of snow and it packs together nice and tight. He straightens and turns towards Harry, a mischievous grin in place.

“Don’t you dare.” Harry warns, but it’s too late. The snowball hits him hard in the arm and Harry hisses. “It’s fucking on.”

It’s been a long time since Harry has had a snowball fight. He and Niall used to have them all the time in primary school, and less often throughout secondary school. But once they made it to uni, the desire to reclaim their youth had become strong. The last year they had gotten real good snow, Harry and Niall had had a snowball fight nearly every day — forts and all.

Soon the clearing is filled with snow flying everywhere. Without him realizing it, however, Harry has become the target for everyone else’s snowballs. Liam and Zayn pelt him from behind while Niall’s come flying from straight ahead. And Louis . . . well, he’s running all over the place, aiming at Harry as well as the other boys. Harry notices that Louis’ snowballs never hit him directly or too hard, while the other boys face the full power behind his throws.

Though Harry could just be imagining things.

Until Zayn yells, “Oi, Lou! Don’t go easy on him just because you fancy him! That’s not fair!”

And Louis shoots back, “I don’t see you hitting Liam with anything!”

“I bruise like a peach!” Liam protests.

“He bruises like a peach!” Zayn parrots. 

Niall snorts and throws a snowball extra hard towards Liam’s legs. “That’s a lie.”

Louis joins in the attack on Liam, and Harry ignores the flutter in his stomach when Louis laughs. “He’s a big boy. He can take it.”

The joint attack on Liam increases once Harry joins the fray, the three of them laughing and flinging snow from every direction. Zayn tries to fend them off by throwing snowballs of his own, but to no avail. Eventually, he jumps in front of Liam with his arms spread wide, as though throwing himself on the pyre. 

“Zayn, get out of the way.” Louis chastises, tossing his snowball from hand to hand. 

“No.” Zayn pouts. “You’re hurting my boy.”

Louis, Niall, and Harry gasp collectively. Louis smiles. “So he’s your _boy_ , now?”

Liam blushes and mumbles from behind him. “I mean, we haven’t made it official, but—” 

“My boy.” Zayn smiles and turns to Liam, cupping his face. The way they look at one another is so intimate, so personal that Harry can never seem to look at them for too long. It’s like he’s interrupting a private moment. The two share a slow, lingering kiss. From somewhere behind him, Niall wolf whistles.

“Alright, alright.” Louis’ voice is teasing. “It’s time for supper anyways.”

By supper, Louis of course means ordering an unhealthy amount of takeout food, ranging from Indian (Zayn and Liam’s choice), burgers (Niall and Louis’ choice), and sushi (Harry’s choice). When Harry tries to order something different, Louis outright refuses.

“Don’t be ridiculous. If you want sushi, you’re getting sushi.”

They sit on the floor of the living room, wrapped up in blankets and watching The Office, the fire crackling and filling the room with a pleasant warmth. Harry picks at his avocado rolls. Louis is right beside him, chatting with Niall about his next charity event and munching happily at his burger. Harry’s struggling not to think about Louis’ knee pressed against his or the blanket that Louis had wrapped around both their shoulders without a word. 

Liam and Zayn are cuddled on the couch, the sickening sound of the occasional kiss making Harry’s stomach turn. He doesn’t want to think about how much he wishes he could kiss Louis, but Liam and Zayn are making it impossible to focus on anything else.

“What do you say, Harry?” Louis asks.

Harry blinks. “About what?”

Louis rolls his eyes while Niall snickers. “We were gonna hop in the hot tub for a bit.”

“Oh. I, uh, don’t know if I have a swimsuit with me.”

“You do.” Niall interjects.

“That settles it.” Louis smirks. He turns towards the couch. “Oi! What about you love birds?”

“Nah. We’re good.” Liam answers. Zayn giggles into his neck.

“Ugh.” Harry and Louis say, almost simultaneously.

To which Niall responds, “Ugh.”

They end up in the hot tub a little while later, and Harry admits he’s rather nervous. He’s never seen Louis shirtless. The closest he’s ever gotten was at the concert, when Louis’ sweat had soaked through his white shirt and clung to his body in all the right places. And that hadn’t ended well. His face goes hot at the memory. 

But the hot tub itself is massive — plenty of room for him to avoid Louis — and Niall is there to act as a buffer. Harry takes a deep, steadying breath. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a motherfucking hot tub this big,” Niall says as Harry steps in. The hot, bubbly water contrasts the icy chill of the air and Harry shivers.

Louis noticeably attempts to keep his gaze away from Harry’s bare chest. When Harry had first walked out, he noted the initial look of shock on Louis’ face. He likely hadn’t expected Harry to have so many tattoos — but Harry hadn’t expected Louis to have so many, either, so he figures it’s pretty fair.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she? One of my better investments.” Louis smiles, bringing a beer bottle to his lips and taking a long swig. 

Harry gulps and looks away.

“Hell yeah. You better believe when me and Ava get a house we’re getting one of these.”

Louis almost chokes. “A house? Didn’t you meet like a month ago?”

Niall rolls his eyes. “Yeah but we’ve practically been together every day since. I know everything about her at this point.”

“Wait, you’re not already looking are you?” Harry frowns. And when Niall doesn’t answer right away, his heart drops into his stomach. “When were you planning on telling me?”

“Nothing’s set in stone, H. I would never leave you without a fair warning.”

This doesn’t make any fucking sense. Niall has only been with Ava for a month — _a month_ — and is already talking about buying a house with her as though that’s a totally normal thing to do. Seriously. What the fuck.

Niall must see the look on his face, because he starts rambling. “Look, mate. I love living with you. But it’s not forever, right? And I’ll still cover my portion of rent if you need me to, at least until you find a roommate. Hell, Liam could move in. You two get on so well. Please don’t be mad.”

Harry sighs, his eyes aimed up towards the stars. “Just . . . give me notice before it happens, yeah?”

“Of course.” Niall nods his head vigorously.

There’s a headache blooming behind his eyes and Harry leans his head against the wall. “And to think I hoped we’d grow old together.”

Niall’s laugh carries throughout the trees, with Louis’ softer chuckle following. “We still will, babe. Don’t you worry. But speaking of,” he checks his watch, “I have to go call Ava.”

“You just spent a whole month with her.” Harry protests. If Niall leaves, then it’s just him and Louis. He absolutely cannot deal with that right now.

“Yeah, well, I miss her and we promised to talk every night.” He pinches Harry’s cheek as he leaves the tub, dripping hot water onto the deck. “You’re still my number one.”

“Liar.” Harry swats his hand away and crosses his arms over his chest. Niall’s only response is to laugh as he walks back into the cabin, the sliding glass door clicking shut. Leaving Louis and Harry in silence.

[Song:  [ I’ve Seen the Future by The Blossoms ](https://youtu.be/EELWND4KG3Q) ]

A full five minutes passes before Louis finally breaks it. “So . . .”

Harry works his jaw. “Sorry, I’m just thrown off by the whole Niall thing.”

“They _do_ seem to be moving fast.” 

“I’ve known Niall my whole life and . . .” Harry shakes his head. “He throws himself into every new romance. This is nothing new, honestly. But wanting to buy a house with her is extreme. I worry.”

Louis shrugs. “You can’t stop him. The best you can do is be there.”

“Yeah, but I would hate to see him get hurt like that. I don’t understand how he can know she’s the right one.” Harry’s getting worked up, and he may be slightly projecting his own hang ups onto Niall’s situation, but he can’t help it. 

How does he _know_? Is there like a certain feeling you get? Is it the same for everyone? How does Harry know which feeling is the right one? Niall had explained it to him after the charity match, but he still can’t fully grasp the idea of it. He wonders if it’s the same feeling he gets every time he sees Louis.

“I think when you know, you know, you know?”

Harry stares at him. “That made zero sense, but also complete sense.” 

Louis laughs, his hand coming up to cover his mouth. “You’re cute.”

Fuck. 

Harry knew something like this would happen. 

It’s such a simple statement, but it carries an impossible amount of weight. They’ve spent so much of the past month dancing around one another, trying and failing to cultivate a friendship as their attraction and feelings grew stronger. But Louis is looking at him like that, smiling with his lip caught between his teeth, and Harry can’t stand it anymore. 

“Come here,” Harry says. 

He feels pathetic that two words could make him drop all of his carefully built up defenses, but this is Louis, and he looks so good, and they both want it. And with Niall gone and no buffer between them, Harry is once again losing himself inside of Louis. This moment was inevitable.

Louis confirms as much when he stands up, walking across the hot tub so he’s standing right in front of Harry with lidded eyes. Harry raises his hand up, cradling Louis’ face, and Louis practically mewls under his touch. “Now what?”

Harry can’t think about it. If he thinks about it, he’ll chicken out, like he has been doing for months now. And Louis looks so pretty, his cheeks pink from the cold of the air and the heat of the water and his eyes a particularly bright shade of blue, contrasting against the darkness hanging over them and the snow on the ground; the blue, bubbling water of the hot tub brings it out even more. 

Above all, Louis called Harry cute, and his lips are so pink and inviting. Fuck it, right? 

So Harry goes for it. He wraps his arms around Louis’ waist, pulling him onto his lap. The water splashes around them. And as soon as their lips collide, it’s game over. Stars are colliding, supernovas are being created, black holes are collapsing and gravity pulls them closer and closer until their bodies are two veins intertwined together and they’re melding into a singular being. Harry can feel his skin buzzing with electricity, a distinct snap, crackle, _pop_ sounding as his hands roam Louis’ chest and Louis’ hands get lost in his damp hair. It’s beautiful. It’s poetry, is what it is. Harry could write a thousand haikus about the way Louis’ eyelashes brush along his cheekbones, would create a million sonnets dedicated to the hollow of his cheeks and the long column of his throat and the shape of his lips— 

He finally gets it. He gets the whole soulmate thing. Because this is, wow. Unlike anything he’s ever experienced. He had been feeling it for months — years even — but had been stubbornly pushing it all down. But this kiss forces it all out into the open. Every stolen glance, every lingering touch, every hidden thought is poured into this one kiss.

“Finally.” Louis murmurs, catching Harry’s bottom lip between his teeth and tugging. “Been wanting to do this for two months.”

Click. Like a puzzle piece. It really is like a fucking puzzle, isn’t it? Harry wants to laugh at the absurdity of it, the truth smacking him in his chest and leaving him just as breathless as Louis’ lips. Click. Click. Every kiss is like he’s finding a new piece and fitting it within himself, the image growing clearer and brighter. Click. Where he used to have four limbs, he now has eight. Zeus must be pissed as hell right now.

“‘M sorry it took me so long.” He sighs. “I was being dumb.”

“Yeah, you were.” Louis sighs against his lips and goes in for another kiss, this one softer. Lingering. Harry could stay like this forever, simply exploring Louis’ mouth. But then Louis is pulling away, lips red and eyes bright. Harry tries to lean forward again, but Louis’ hands press against his chest. “Harry.”

He loves hearing Louis say his name, but in this instance, he hates it. He doesn’t want to talk. He wants to get lost in Louis’ lips and ignore the past, ignore all of the issues between them that need to be addressed. 

But Louis can’t do that, apparently. “Harry, you have to talk to me.”

Harry closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Louis’. The steam from the hot tub is making it hard to think. Or maybe it’s the kissing. “Can’t we talk later?”

“I’ve been trying to talk for ages, Harry.”

“I don’t want to fight. Not tonight.”

Louis’ hands tense. “Why does it have to turn into a fight?”

Before Harry can respond, the sliding door opens and a naked Zayn is running down the stairs and into the darkness. Liam chases after him a second later, holding up a towel and looking distressed. The moment slips away and Harry is wide-eyed, staring at Liam with alarm.

“What’s Zayn doing?” Harry asks. Louis whips his head around, immediately searching for the man in question.

Liam turns to them, the towel clutched in his hands. “He wants to go skinny dipping. And I told him no, because . . .”

Louis is scrambling off of Harry’s lap and out of the hot tub before Liam can finish his sentence, running down the stairs and following Zayn’s dark shadow towards the dock floating in the water. Liam stands in shock while Harry walks towards him, pressing a warm hand to his wrist.

“We should probably help him.” 

He nods. “Yeah, right.”

[Song: [ Leave a Light on by Tom Walker ](https://youtu.be/hD6sCFYrOjk)] 

They head down towards the dock, where Zayn is standing at the edge, his toes dipping into the water. He and Louis are arguing loudly, and each time Louis steps forward, Zayn leans back in warning.

“I don’t understand why you have to do this shit.”

“You’re right, Lou. You don’t understand.”

“If you jump in, we have to go to the hospital. You know that.”

Zayn clenches his jaw. “I never asked you to bring me.”

“What else am I supposed to do? Let you die?”

“I’m not going to—”

“Last winter, Zayn. You stayed outside in negative ten for over an hour and what happened?”

“I just want to _feel_ something, Lou.”

Louis is crying now. Harry can’t see his face, but he’s choking on his words. “You know that’s not possible. Stop being an idiot.”

“Zayn—” Liam cuts in, but Zayn isn’t having it.

“None of you get it.”

He jumps into the water then, the thin layer of ice breaking into tiny islands around him and floating away. Immediately Louis is swearing up a storm and rushing towards the end of the dock, peering over the edge and waiting for Zayn’s head to break the surface. When it does a minute later, it’s with a gasp and a flailing arm, which Louis grabs onto. Liam is there, too. Harry doesn’t know how it happened. One moment, Liam is beside him, and the next, he’s helping Louis pull Zayn out of the lake. 

“Fuck you.” Louis growls, hugging Zayn’s soaking body against his chest. The other man hardly responds, his lips tinted a light blue. 

Louis looks over to where Harry is standing. “Harry, grab my keys. Start the car.”

He does what Louis asks without questioning it. 

Five minutes later, Louis and Liam are hurrying towards Louis’ BMW, with Niall not far behind. Zayn is thrown over Liam’s shoulder and he’s carrying him firefighter-style, as though he weighs nothing, and under different circumstances the moment might be hilarious. But Harry’s fingers clench on the steering wheel. 

Louis gets in the passenger seat wordlessly and types in the nearest hospital on the GPS. Harry pretends not to notice his shaking fingers. As soon as the others are inside, Harry is pulling out of the driveway and driving as fast as he can down the empty roads. He still doesn’t fully understand what’s wrong with Zayn, but ever since Zayn had melted the skin of his finger without so much as a twitch, Harry had known it was serious.

He swears he’s heard of a condition before where people can’t feel pain. But the name escapes him. He wonders if that’s what Zayn has. 

The car is eerily silent as they drive, aside from the occasional deep inhale or exhale of Zayn from the backseat. Harry looks in the rearview mirror and can see that Zayn is wrapped up in layers and layers of blankets, his head placed in Liam’s lap, where Liam continues to card his fingers through Zayn’s hair. 

The scene is somewhat heartbreaking.

They make it to the hospital in record time and Louis must have called ahead, because there’s a nurse waiting outside with a wheelchair. She becomes extra alert as Harry pulls up. 

“Mr. Malik?” She asks Louis, who has already jumped out of the car.

“Yup. Is Dr. Ramaldi in?” Louis asks.

The nurse nods. “You said he jumped in a frozen lake? How long ago?”

“It’s been about twenty minutes now. We wrapped him up in blankets but his lips are still blue.”

She nods again and writes on her pad. Liam places Zayn gently in the wheelchair and the nurse starts to push him inside. Louis and Liam go to follow, so Harry and Niall go on to find a parking spot. Harry finds one of Louis’ sweatshirts in the backseat and throws it on over his bare chest. He inhales deep, savoring the sweet, familiar scent of vanilla and cigarettes. His nerves are on fire.

“I knew he had something, but . . . that’s fucking scary.” Niall whispers.

“Yeah,” Harry says. Because he doesn’t know what else there is _to_ say. 

They find Liam and Louis in the waiting room, where Louis is currently rubbing Liam’s back and whispering in his ear. It seems strange, watching Louis comfort Liam, when Louis is Zayn’s best friend. But Harry also knows that this seems to be a common occurrence for him. He wonders how many nights Louis has spent in the hospital, waiting for Zayn to be okay.

Louis spots him and Niall hanging at the edge of the room and waves them over. The waiting room is mostly empty, aside from an elderly man with a cane and a young woman with a pile of tissues in her lap. 

Niall collapses into the chair on Liam’s other side and throws an arm around his back, resting his cheek against his shoulder blade. “Z will be okay.”

Liam shakes his head. “A lot of people like him die of hypothermia.”

“Dr. Ramaldi knows Zayn’s history. He specializes in cases like this,” Louis says, mostly to himself than anyone else. His eyes keep straying towards the sliding doors, nothing but worry etched into the lines along his face.

Harry wants to ask how a doctor in Lancaster can know Zayn, who’s presumably from Yorkshire, but he doesn’t. If he’s honest, there are a lot of questions resting on the tip of his tongue, but they all feel insensitive or rude. He doesn’t understand a lot of what’s happening.

Louis looks up at Harry. “Can we take a walk?”

He nods. It’s almost a relief to get out of there, because Harry has hated hospitals ever since Gary’s death. The coroners had been no help, had offered no closure, no answers. And he had thought, at the time, _what’s the point of you?_ What’s the point in being the bearer of bad news if you can’t at least offer answers? 

He hates doctors. Hates hospitals. And he’s probably one of the only ones here who can understand Louis’ anxiety at the moment, so he follows Louis outside towards the entrance without a word. Louis reaches into his pocket for a lighter and a pack of cigarettes, pulling a smoke out with shaky hands. He struggles to light it, however, and Harry leans over to slip the lighter out of his grasp. 

“I can do it.” Louis huffs, but he still holds the cigarette out over the flame.

“Never said you couldn’t.” 

The hospital is quiet at this time of night — or perhaps it’s just the location. Harry is used to hospitals that are buzzing with voices and full of tension no matter what time of day. This hospital is almost the opposite. Quiet and vacant. Slightly peaceful, despite the awful anticipation hanging over their heads. Louis offers a cigarette to Harry and he takes it gratefully. They smoke together in silence. 

When Louis finishes his first, he grinds it into the slush and speaks. “It’s congenital insensitivity and anhydrosis.”

Harry blinks. “What?”

“That’s what Zayn has. It’s a condition. He can’t feel pain, or temperature. His body can’t regulate heat or heal properly. He doesn’t even sweat. The doctors never expected him to live this long. A lot of people like him don’t. It’s an extremely dangerous condition.” The words come out of him in a detached, disjointed manner, as though he’s reciting it from memory. Like it’s something he’s memorized from a textbook in an attempt to understand, or help others to. Harry hates the way he sounds. 

“So that’s why he's always hurting himself?”

Louis coughs. “At first most of them were accidents, but he gets so frustrated, you know? He hates not being able to feel shit. It would drive anyone to extreme lengths, I think. But he’s only gotten more reckless to the point where sometimes I can’t help but think—” 

“He told me he’s not suicidal.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not so sure I believe it anymore.” Louis’ cheeks are damp, and Harry reaches over to wipe a stray tear away. He does it without thinking, but Louis looks at him with wild eyes. He starts to retract his hand, but Louis reaches out for it. 

He knows Louis needs this. Needs a steady hand, a stabilizing force to keep him grounded. It’s another thing they have in common. Harry’s heart burns with longing. 

Louis looks at him through wet eyelashes. “I know I come on strong. I can be clingy and irrational. It’s just — growing up with Zayn as my best friend — it’s hard not to be, you know? I had to learn at a young age that life is too short, that at any moment, someone you love could be gone, so I’ve tried to live with my heart on my sleeve. Be open and honest. No regrets. Then me mum died and . . . I don’t know. I can’t half ass things, okay? I don’t half ass my feelings and I don’t half ass relationships. I need to know where your head's at.” 

It makes complete sense to Harry. So much sense, in fact, that he feels like even _more_ of an asshole than he did before. Louis has gone through so much, been hurt so many times, yet he still embraces life and all the pain that accompanies it. He wishes he were that brave.

Harry gulps. “It’s just . . . I’m not good at talking. Especially not about my feelings. I want to make sure I have a clear head when we do.”

A beat of silence follows, and Harry’s afraid that Louis won’t understand, but then Louis sighs. “I guess I can understand. It’s been a hell of a night.”

Harry squeezes his hand. “Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

Louis shoots him a watery smile. “I’m okay. Zayn will be okay. I have to believe it. Just like I have to believe you and I will be okay.”

“All I ask for is a little patience.”

Louis leans forward and presses his lips against Harry’s. It’s gone in a flash. “Well, I won’t wait forever, Harold.”

“A day. That’s all I need.”

“Okay.” 

They stay out there for a bit longer, waiting in the silence. The new year begins without them noticing and they watch as the first fireworks explode in the distance, shimmering light and sound and hope for a brief moment before disappearing into the night. Then another one explodes, and soon the entire sky is a kaleidoscope of colors. But the celebration is inconsequential. Instead they focus on the weight in their hands, warm skin pressing together. Fighting off the cold. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *NOTE: Congenital sensitivity and anhydrosis is a very rare and extremely dangerous medical condition. There isn't a lot of available literature on the condition. For the purposes of this piece of fiction, I have taken creative liberties in my depiction. I am by no means an expert and nothing written here should be interpreted as 100% fact. A few things to note: Most patients don’t tend to live over 25. Though many can still live a fairly normal life, they must constantly check for injuries and visit their physician regularly. From what I understand, other sensations (aside from pain) can be felt. There is no standard treatment or cure as of this writing.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Louis talk. And other stuff.

The lights in the cabin are still on when they return from the hospital, and the fire in the hearth is still going. Though there is nothing but embers now. It’s a miracle that the cabin hadn’t burnt down in their absence. Harry thinks it would be just their luck, if it had. He opens the front door and heads straight for the couch, rearranging the pillows and blankets to form a cocoon. Niall follows, whispering to Ava on the phone and carrying all of the items that the others had left in the car. Liam steps through the threshold carrying a bundled up, deeply asleep Zayn in his arms. Louis is close behind, holding onto Zayn’s foot with both hands (he hasn’t let go of him since the doctor discharged him).

The past eight hours had been brutal. 

Zayn had been placed in intensive care for four of those eight hours, where they pumped him with warm fluids and tried to raise his body temperature as quickly as they could without increasing the risk of arrhythmia. Apparently, according to Louis, patients like Zayn were tricky. Cases of hypothermia became severe rapidly, so it was important to raise their body temperature before that could happen. But not too fast. Otherwise it could lead to cardiac arrest or lung failure. 

(The entire ordeal was like recalibrating a fine-tuned machine — but this particular machine was already sending out the wrong frequency.)

Louis had stated all of this in that same detached voice, his mouth pressed into Harry’s neck and legs resting on Harry’s lap. He sounded tired. Like he had taken responsibility for Zayn’s life and carried it on his shoulders all these years, alone, not realizing that he was running himself into the ground in the meantime. Harry had pulled him even tighter, pressing a kiss against his temple. (Because that was allowed now, right?)

By the time hour four had rolled around, Louis had practically shoved Harry out the door, attempting to convince him to go back to the cabin and get some rest. But Harry couldn’t leave Louis. Not like that. Not in a waiting room surrounded by sterile walls and stoic faces. Not without answers.

They had all decided to stay. Niall had gone to the vending machines to pile up on snacks and Harry had convinced a nurse to bring them some blankets and Louis had managed to make cups of coffee that didn’t taste burnt. Liam had remained silent, his eyes trained on the sliding doors like he could use his psychic powers to magically force the doctors to reappear. Nobody tried to bother him.

Liam gently sets Zayn into Harry’s haphazard cocoon and props his head on the pillows, pulling a wool blanket up to his chin and tucking it in at the sides; he presses a tender kiss to his forehead before pulling back. He fits his body carefully around Zayn’s sleeping form, staring up at his face with unblinking eyes.

None of them have slept, but the sky begins to lighten as day breaks. If Harry weren’t so tired, he would take the opportunity to bask in the cool, blue tint of dusk. Maybe hold Louis’ hand.

Louis is still holding onto Zayn’s foot, kneeling on the floor beside the couch and massaging the arch mindlessly. His eyes are far away, lost inside his mind somewhere. Harry doesn’t think he could pull him out even if he tried. But he needs to sleep.

“Louis.” He rasps. 

Louis doesn't acknowledge him.

He steps into Louis’ line of sight, bending down so their faces are level. “Louis, please sleep.”

Louis blinks and his eyes flit towards Zayn. Harry guides his chin back with his finger, demanding his attention. 

“You need to sleep, Lou.”

“But Zayn—” 

“Liam is taking care of him. Aren’t you Liam?” Harry turns towards Liam, whose eyes still haven’t left Zayn’s face. Liam nods. 

“But I know what he needs.” Louis is practically whining.

Liam grunts. “I listened to the doctor, Lou. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“You need to sleep, too.” Harry furrows his brows. He knows, logically, that someone needs to keep an eye on Zayn and check his temperature at hourly intervals, but Liam’s eyes are puffy and dry. Harry has never seen him so depleted.

“I couldn’t sleep if I tried. You two go on.”

Louis goes to argue, but Harry places a gentle hand on his arm and his lips snap shut, a slight quiver to them. He lets Harry guide him up the stairs, into the bedroom, and onto the bed so that he’s sitting on the edge. He’s still wearing his swim trunks from last night and a tan, wool sweater he’d thrown on in a hurry. Harry kneels on the ground and removes his shoes gently. “You should change.”

Louis shakes his head. 

Harry sighs. “Okay. Let’s sleep, then.”

“Stay with me?”

“Of course.”

Harry had thought before — back when he and Louis hadn’t kissed yet and Zayn hadn’t ended up in the hospital — that the bed would be an issue. But instead, the bed feels too big, too spacious. Louis curls in on himself and reaches behind him to grab at Harry’s hand, leaving a few inches of space, and they lay like that briefly before Harry can’t stand the distance any longer. 

“Louis. Come here.” He needs to comfort Louis in the only way he knows how. He  _ knows _ touch. He can provide a hand to hold, a cuddle; he can be a source of warmth beside Louis; he can run his fingers through Louis’ hair. Harry has never been bad at small reassurances. It’s words that tend to evade him.

Louis hesitates. But then Harry slips an arm over his waist and he just . . . melts into the mattress, his breath catching and his back arching into the touch. Harry pulls him in and rests his chin against Louis’ shoulder. He remembers what it was like, the first time he laid with Louis like this, how strange he thought it was that they fit so well together. Now, it only works to settle his nerves. 

“Thank you.” Louis whispers, fingers slotting into Harry’s and squeezing.

Harry squeezes back. “Get some sleep, love.”

Louis breathes in deep, his head sinking into the pillow. “You called me love.” 

He hadn’t realized that the word had slipped, but Harry finds that he doesn’t care. He doesn’t know what he and Louis are to each other — not yet — but he knows that he would like to call Louis ‘love’ over and over again until the word begins to lose shape, unfolding and floating freely in the air, wrapping around their bodies and mapping its way towards their hearts. He wants to drown inside the word, wants to dive headfirst and shock his body awake. Because for the first time in a long time, he is. 

_ Awake _ .

+++

Harry wakes up with Louis’ face pressed into his chest, a dribble of drool leaking onto his shirt. It would be cute, if not for the fact that Louis’ knee was also pressing into his bladder. 

“Lou.” He whispers, shaking the other man’s arm. 

Louis mumbles and his fists clutch at Harry’s shirt tighter, bringing him closer. Which means his knee digs deeper. 

Harry hisses. “Louis, please. I have to wee.”

The bed is so small that it’s impossible to push Louis away without sending him over the edge, so Harry attempts to untangle himself from Louis’ grasp as best as he can. When he finally frees himself, he topples over the side of the bed and knocks his elbow against the table, a resounding thump filling the room. Harry bites his lip to keep from calling out. But Louis doesn’t budge. 

“Heavy sleeper.” Harry breathes in heavily through his nose, eyes stinging. “Noted.”

He goes to the bathroom cradling his elbow and is walking into the sitting room when Niall enters the cabin with a bang, carrying two arms full of reusable grocery bags. He catches Harry staring and rolls his eyes. “You could help."

Harry snorts and places his hands on his hips. “You look like you got it handled.”

“Bastard.” Niall grits, dropping the bags onto the floor. “And to think I followed your list to the letter.”

He brightens up a bit at that. “Yeah? Even the candles?”

“Jesus, H. Yes, I got like five different candles.”

“And the sparklers?”

Niall scrunches his lips. “You know New Year’s Eve was yesterday, right? Two days ago? I don’t even know what day it is right now.”

“And all the ingredients?”

“I told you I followed your list, didn’t I?” Niall sounds tired and Harry is only now noticing the bags beneath his eyes.

Harry steps forward. “Have you slept at all?” 

Niall shrugs, moving to put away the groceries instead of answering. His hair is frayed, sticking in every direction and damp from sweat. He’s still wearing his clothes from the hospital.

“I can do that.” Harry puts his hand on Niall’s to stop him. 

Niall’s body immediately slumps. “Liam fell asleep, so I took watch over Zayn for a bit. A nap would be great.”

“Go. Take a shower and get your beauty sleep. You look awful.”

“Do I smell awful, too?” Niall shoves his armpit in Harry’s face and Harry squawks, pushing him away. 

“You’re always smelly.”

Niall snorts but starts heading towards his bedroom, ruffling Harry’s hair as he passes by. Harry pulls him into a tight hug, which Niall falls into without complaint.

“Ni?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for getting all of this. I appreciate it.”

Niall pulls away and looks at him warily. “You are cooking for  _ all _ of us, right?”

Harry laughs. “I doubt Louis and I could eat it all ourselves.”

“Right. Gotta save your appetite.” Niall winks.

Harry pinches his nose. “You’re gross. Go to sleep.”

Niall laughs and disappears into the bedroom while Harry rummages through the bags, inventorying everything that Niall had bought and double checking that he has everything he needs. It’s incredible, really, that Harry had been able to write it all down in the first place. He’d woken up in the middle of the night bleary-eyed but inspired and had texted the list to Niall before falling back to sleep. And Niall had followed through.

He can’t say it enough times. Bless that man.

Although, as soon as he reaches one of the last bags, Harry second guesses that statement. He looks inside and instantly recoils, his face rushing with heat. The entire bag is filled to the brim with boxes of condoms and different kinds of lube. Like, an absurd amount. He doesn’t think he’s used that many condoms in his entire adult life. 

“What’s all that?” Louis shuffles into the sitting room, rubbing at his eyes and pointing to the bag in Harry’s hands. His hair is damp from the shower and his hands are curled inside the sleeves of a maroon sweater.

Harry’s face turns an even deeper shade of red. “Nothing.”

Louis cocks his head. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“It’s a surprise.” He rushes, clutching the bag closer to his chest. 

He can’t let Louis see what’s in the bag. It would be too mortifying, and Louis would have too many questions. Most of all, Harry doesn’t want to come off as presumptuous. Niall is going to fucking pay for this.

A small smile curls on Louis’ lips. “Yeah?”

Harry swallows and nods.

“Well, it better be a good one. No pressure or anything.” Louis sniffs. But the look on Harry’s face must be terrified, because he breaks into giggles a moment later. “Relax, Harry. I’m joking.”

Harry breathes out a puff of air. “Oh. Good.”

Louis takes a seat on one of the stools at the island while Harry hides the bag of condoms and lube in the coat closet, along with the bag of gifts he chose. He’ll give them to Louis later. “Have you seen Zayn?”

“I think he and Liam are asleep.”

Louis nods, his eyes flicking towards their bedroom door with worry. His concern is understandable. If it had been Niall in the hospital, Harry would be inconsolable. Harry watches Louis have a mental debate, probably deciding whether or not to go check on Zayn, until his forehead softens and he turns to smile at Harry.

“Do you need help unloading? Or . . . cooking?” Louis glances at the row of ingredients piled on top of the counter space. “Fucking hell, are you cooking for an entire army?”

“No, just Niall and Liam.”

“Fair enough.” 

Harry leans against the island. Their hands are centimeters apart, but surprisingly, Louis doesn’t close the gap. “How did you sleep?”

“Brilliant. You?”

“Same.” Harry nudges his pinky against Louis’. “I was rather comfortable. Except someone drooled on my shirt. And dug his knee into my bladder so I had to leave the bed to go wee.”

Louis grabs at Harry’s pinky with his own and grins. “Ooh, I’m not used to such open flattery. Please, go on.”

“Did I mention that I find you handsome?” Harry’s heart thrills. He’s not used to being able to tell Louis how he feels. He doesn’t know why he didn’t kiss him sooner, why he had acted so stubborn up until now.

“Hmm. Not that I recall.”

“Oh, too bad.”

“You dick.” Louis leans forward and presses his lips to Harry’s, tentatively. “This is okay, right?”

Harry can’t seem to catch his breath. “I’d say it’s encouraged.”

They kiss again, this time slower, more languid. Louis takes the lead and Harry melts into it, allowing his mouth to be coaxed open with Louis’ tongue. His toes curl against the cold hardwood floors and a shock of electricity runs up and down his spine. Louis deepens the kiss with a moan and presses their palms together. He bites gently at Harry’s lip and Harry gasps. If not for the island between their bodies, Harry doesn’t think they could stop. He thinks they could keep going like this forever, tonguing and exploring one another. But after a few minutes of the awkward position, Louis breaks away with a sigh.

He pokes at a bag of tomatoes. “So, do you need my help or is this all part of the surprise?”

Harry blinks and tries to find his voice. “Surprise.” 

“Color me intrigued.” Louis rests his chin on his palm and Harry is tempted to kiss him again.

“It’s nothing special.”

“I don’t need special.” 

“You deserve it, though.”

Louis’ eyes soften. “I’m sure whatever it is will be perfect.”

Harry’s cheeks go hot again. He’s not used to this. And not because it’s new and it’s Louis — but he’s never had anyone look at him like that, or tease him softly, or give him small reassurances and compliments without any hidden motives. Harry doesn’t know how to handle it.

It must be clear on his face, because Louis squeezes his hand. “Good?”

_ Like that. _ Nobody (except Niall) has ever been able to intuitively know when to check in with him. But Louis seems to understand, even if he still doesn’t fully yet. Somehow, it’s like their minds are on the same wavelength. No words required. (Though they still need to talk. Harry hasn’t forgotten, despite wishing he had.)

Harry nods. “I’m great. You should go relax. Check on Zayn and stuff.”

Louis smiles softly. “Okay. If you need to know where anything is, just ask.”

“You say that as if I haven’t already snooped.”

A snort escapes Louis’ lips and he rolls his eyes. “Sorry. I forgot I was talking to Eduardo and his sticky fingers.”

Harry shoos him away. “Goodbye, Willy.”

Louis groans but hops off the stool anyway, walking towards Liam and Zayn’s bedroom. “I still think that’s the absolute worst nickname.”

Harry blows a kiss. “That’s why it’s perfect.”

Laughter echoes in the room and then disappears when Louis enters Liam and Zayn’s room, the door clicking shut. Harry stares at the door for a moment, his heart fluttering, before he turns to the mountain of food sitting before him. He grabs for a cutting board, a knife, and a tomato and starts chopping, Louis’ laughter still ringing in his ears.

+++

Harry may have gone overboard. 

His original plan was to make pizzas from scratch with a salad on the side — but he ends up making that plus some. There are four large pizzas sitting on the countertop (Hawaiian, veggie, garlic parmesan, and pepperoni), a bowl of salad, and a triple layered caramel vanilla cake. 

He had seen that Louis had all the ingredients for cake in his pantry, and while the pizzas had been baking, Harry had started mixing the batter without thinking too much about it. His main thought had been about Louis’ birthday, and how Harry hadn’t been able to do anything for him, and how badly he had treated Louis. The cake could hardly make up for that, but it was a start.

When the other boys walk into the kitchen and see all of the food laid out before them, their jaws drop. 

“Mate, what the fuck?” Zayn is the first to break the silence. He looks better now, his cheeks full of color and his lips returned to a normal pink color. Liam holds him at the waist to keep him steady, and there’s a slight tremble in his hands, but it’s a relief to see him up and walking.

Louis laughs, almost maniacally. “I can’t believe you made all of this.”

Liam, ever the observant one, points to the cake. “Why a cake?”

“I just . . . wanted to bake.”

Niall jumps in, presumably trying to save Harry the embarrassment. “Harry bakes all the time.”

“Oh yeah, you brought me chocolate chip cookies once. They were incredible.” Liam nods. 

The smile slips from Louis’ face and he turns to Harry, pouting. “You’ve never baked anything for me.”

Harry’s blush deepens. “Erm, well, I sort of made this as a late birthday cake.”

Louis’ mouth forms into a small ‘O’ shape as the other boys glance between them. Niall is the one to quell the awkward silence. “Well, let’s eat. I’m starving.”

Dinner is a mellow affair. Aside from Louis and Liam fretting over Zayn and making sure he can’t hurt himself, the atmosphere is calm. Sort of like the stillness after a thunderstorm, right before the birds begin chirping again. Louis and Harry sit pressed together, their arms and thighs and hands touching. And it’s weird, because Harry has spent so long trying  _ not _ to touch Louis . . . but the weight of Louis beside him is nice. 

The five of them slip into an easy banter around the coffee table, the fireplace crackling and a low hum of Frank Ocean playing over the speakers. Louis criticizes Hawaiian pizza, while Liam and Niall defend it; Zayn and Harry remain neutral. Until Liam feeds Zayn a piece pineapple from his slice, which automatically switches Zayn onto their side of the argument. 

“Traitor,” Louis says, without any heat.

When they’ve demolished all but three slices of pizza, the salad barely touched by anyone other than Harry, Louis gets up to grab the cake, and the absence of his warmth causes a whine to leave Harry’s lips. Louis giggles and sets the cake on the coffee table before leaning down to kiss him square on the mouth.

The other three boys groan, while Harry bites back a smile.

“Sorry, love. I’m rather excited to try this cake you made for me.” Louis teases, his thumb tracing Harry’s jaw. 

The boys sing a disjointed rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ to Louis while Louis cuts into the cake and passes out a piece to everyone before grabbing one for himself, a small smile on his face. Harry watches as he takes the first bite, his eyes closing and head tipping back. Harry doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s quite nervous for Louis’ feedback. Most people who try his baked goods tell him that they’re delectable — but they are also people who love Harry. 

Louis sighs through his nose. “I can’t decide whether to kiss you or take another bite.”

From the other end of the table, Niall groans. “Just eat the damn cake.”

Maybe he does it to be a nuisance, or it’s simply his chaotic nature coming out, but Louis smirks at Niall before taking a bit of frosting from the cake and smearing it all over his lips. He looks at Harry and bats his eyelashes. “Do I have anything on my face?”

Liam’s laugh covers Zayn and Niall’s collective scoff, but Harry can hardly hear them over the heartbeat in his ears. He leans forward and kisses Louis softly, catching a bit of the frosting on his tongue and licking into Louis’ mouth. Louis laughs in surprise and kisses him back.

“Here’s a debate you guys can settle,” Niall begins loudly, eyeing Harry once he and Louis have broken apart. “Who’s better: the Red Hot Chili Peppers or Nirvana?”

Harry rolls his eyes when Liam says the Red Hot Chili Peppers, but when Zayn looks at him incredulously and says Nirvana, Harry bumps his fist. Liam starts to argue that they are two different types of rock and are hardly comparable, but Niall shushes him into silence. The vote is 2-2, meaning that Louis is the tiebreaker. They all turn to look at him. 

He returns their stares innocently. “I’m more of an Oasis man.”

Zayn snorts. “I know you listen to the Red Hot Chili Peppers more than Nirvana.”

“Yes, well, the Red Hot Chili Peppers have more vibe worthy tunes. But are we talking about musical merit or personal preference?”

Harry says, “Merit,” at the same time Niall says, “Preference.”

They turn to glare at one another. Harry shakes his head. “No way. This is purely objective.”

Louis looks at Harry apologetically. “If we’re talking objectively, the Red Hot Chili Peppers have won far more awards than Nirvana.”

Harry stares at him. “That’s not fair. The Red Hot Chili Peppers have been around longer. If Nirvana hadn’t broken up—” 

“I still say you can’t compare them.” Liam cuts in. 

“For the sake of keeping the peace,” Zayn says. “Let's call it a tie.”

A little while later, when Niall and Zayn are reenacting their first game on the Holmes Chapel football pitch with a hacky sack and Liam is cleaning up the dishes, Harry tugs at a lock of Louis’ hair to grab his attention. Louis leans into the touch and turns his head, lips twitching. “Yeah?”

“Remember your surprise?” Harry whispers.

Louis’ brows knit together. “I thought that was the cake.”

“No. That was only part of it.” He reaches his hand out and they stand together, the others hardly noticing when they put on their coats and slip through the sliding door onto the deck. Harry’s grabbed the bag filled with presents, and Louis eyes it with a tentative smile. Harry feels silly, but he’s nervous. It’s been so long since he’s made a gesture, and all he can think about is what if Louis doesn’t like it . . . 

“Harry,” Louis steps forward and cups Harry’s cheek in his hand. “Can I see what you got me?”

Harry nods and shoves the bag into Louis’ chest, a little too forcefully. Louis giggles in surprise and takes it gently. He rummages through the bag and Harry bites at his nail beds, trying to gauge Louis’ reaction. There’s a pause when he pulls out the first gift: a white mug with a cartoon of animated pieces of macaroni and a block of cheese painted on the front, the words ‘You’re the macaroni to my cheese’ written across the top and bottom. 

Louis giggles even harder. “Fitting.”

A breath of relief fills Harry’s lungs while Louis reaches into the bag and pulls out a box of Yorkshire tea. “Only the best for the best, right?”

And, god, if Louis looked at him like he is right now  _ all _ the time . . . Harry thinks he would die a happy man. He holds the mug in one hand and the box of Yorkshire tea in the other, a mystified look on his face. “When did you have time to shop?”

“Niall bought everything. I gave him the list.” He’s bouncing on his toes, impatient, because there’s one last gift, and it’s the one he’s most excited about.

Louis bites his lip. “Well, I love them.”

“There’s something else.” 

There’s a rustle of plastic, and then Louis is pulling out a packet of sparklers with a confused frown. “Why sparklers?”

Harry shoves his hands into his pockets and watches the orange hue of the setting sun poke through the trees. “We didn’t get to celebrate New Year’s. And when I was younger, my sister and I used to chase each other through the yard with sparklers. They were a fun sort of tradition for us. I thought I could share it with you."

Before Harry can react, Louis’ lips are on him. Frantic, yet controlled. Harry steadies himself by placing his hands on Louis’ hips, the taste of caramel and vanilla lingering.

Louis breaks away and rests his forehead against Harry’s. “Thank you.”

“I was a prick to you on your birthday. I’m sorry.”

“Is this you trying to make up for that?” 

Harry gnaws at his lip. “A little bit. Though I know it doesn’t make up for any of it. I’ve been awful.” 

“I haven’t been much better. I’ve been pushing when . . . I know you have a complicated history.”

“We can talk about that later. For now,” Harry pulls back and knicks the pack of sparklers from Louis’ hands. “We’re going to embrace our inner child.”

They light the sparklers as the sky darkens, their chuckles lost in the fading light. The sparklers shoot yellow sparks off in every direction, and Harry spins in a pirouette with his arm outstretched. Louis joins him and they’re dancing in the early evening glow, a shower of light raining down on them.

Louis pauses mid-spin and grins wide at Harry. “You wanna see something cool?”

Dizzy, Harry nods. 

Louis sets his own sparkler on the deck and reaches into his pocket for his pack of smokes. He shakes one out and steps closer towards Harry, eyes glinting in the shimmering light as he places the cigarette between his lips and bends over, his head dangerously close to the sparkler. Harry is too frozen to pull away, watching in disbelief as Louis lights his cigarette from the end of the sparkler and straightens. He blows a puff of smoke in Harry’s face.

“Why was that so hot.” Harry bites the inside of his cheek. He hadn’t meant for the words to come out, but — Jesus. Louis is full of surprises, and he is intoxicating to be around; he makes Harry feel unsteady, but in the best way possible. He makes Harry feel, in general. So much. Too much. 

He drops his sparkler on the deck next to Louis’ and reaches over to pluck the cigarette from Louis’ mouth, sucking on the filter for a long, drawn out moment before he’s blowing a large cloud of smoke in his face. He hands the cigarette back to Louis with a smirk, but Louis swats his hand away.

“Come here.” 

Arms are wrapping around his waist and pulling him in and lips are on him and all of it is so good, so right, that Harry can’t help but sink into the embrace. Every time he and Louis kiss, it’s like a dream. His head is floating away and his body is warm and fuzzy and none of it seems real. But Louis is here, holding onto him, stabilizing him. He thinks back to that day in the meadow, how things might be different if he had kissed Louis back then; where they might be now if Harry hadn’t allowed fear to control him.

“Oi! You two thought you could hog all the sparklers and not let us in on the fun?” Zayn’s voice calls, the sliding door squeaking open.

Louis continues to kiss Harry but one of his arms leaves his waist, and from somewhere nearby, Zayn clucks. “No need to flip me off, mate. You two can snog, I just want a sparkler.”

Niall’s laugh comes from somewhere nearby. “Good luck getting the packet from them.”

A crinkle of plastic sounds as Louis throws the packet towards their voices, his lips still attached to Harry’s. The whole ordeal is so hilarious that Harry can’t hold back his laughter any longer. He breaks off the kiss, a thin line of spit connecting their lips, and giggles into Louis’ neck, fists clenched around his shirt.

“Rude.” Louis mutters, his palms rubbing up and down Harry’s back.

Harry turns around and leans into Louis’ chest, his hands resting on top of Louis’. Louis kisses his neck and they watch as Liam, Zayn, and Niall light up their sparklers, swinging their arms in circles and pretending to jab them at one another like swords. Niall screams  _ Happy fucking New Year _ into the darkness and they all join in, their booming voices filling in the gaps of silence left by the snow and the trees. Soon enough, Zayn has five sparklers in each hand, waving his arms in circles so that it looks like he’s dancing with fire. Niall and Liam cheer him on from the side, their own sparklers showering down on him. Night has fallen at this point, the only source of light coming from within the cabin and the sparklers burning outside. 

And the five of them.

Each of them are like the stars in the night sky. Burning bright. Flickering and winking in quick pulses. So deep in space, so far away that they remain untouchable and free. 

+++

“I think the only way we can move forward is to get everything out into the open.”

Harry turns his head, trying to find Louis’ face in the darkness. “What do you mean?”

“You know,” the snow crunches as he inches closer. “Lay all our cards on the table. Clear the air.”

“What do you want to know?”

When the sparklers had run out and the others had said their goodnights, Louis and Harry had decided to take a walk through the woods. There was something different about mother nature at night. Something that made honesty spill out like honey, made it easier to cut your heart open and pour it out into the soil. Something that made Harry want to bare his soul to the moon and share his secrets with the wind.

And now he is sharing them with Louis. And it’s safe. Natural.

Louis’ eyes shine in the moonlight. “What changed your mind about us?”

“I never made up my mind, honestly. I kept going back and forth. I was terrified of you. I still am.” His voice is barely above a whisper and Louis turns into him, a finger tracing along his bicep.

“Why?”

“Because I see a future with you, and I told myself that I could never love again, or be loved. I couldn’t let myself.”

The finger pauses. “That’s so sad.”

“It’s the truth.”

Louis’s warm breath grazes his neck and Harry shivers. “Ask me something now.”

“Why did you keep pursuing me, even after I acted that way?” 

“I don’t know. You pulled me in. You intrigued me. You still do.” Louis teases and Harry frowns, turning to face Louis. Curling towards his warmth.

“I’m not that mysterious.”

“You’re a mystery to me, Harry Styles.”

Harry traces the outline of Louis’ jaw. “I think you’re better at knowing me than you think you are.”

Louis turns into Harry’s palm and kisses the skin. “I want to know everything.”

“Me too.” Harry licks his lips, ignoring the cold snow soaking through his jeans. “Did you know I was in the bathroom that day, at the concert?”

Without hesitation, “Yes.”

“If you had walked into my stall, I wouldn’t have stopped you.”

“If I had thought you would let me, I would have.”

“I was trying so hard to be your friend, but I couldn’t do it.”

“Were you thinking of me?”

“Yes.” He breathes. Listens to his heartbeat as the admission lingers in the air. Louis’ finger continues to trace shapes on his arm, his touch featherlight. Harry turns his eyes towards the stars, towards the interlocking branches of the trees creating the illusion of cracks in the sky. He wonders how many secrets have filled those cracks tonight.

“Why didn’t you make a move sooner?” 

“I told you, I was scared.”

“Was it because of Noah?”

Harry flinches. “So you  _ did _ see my phone that day.”

“I did.”

“Yes, because of Noah.”

“What did he do?”

Silence rings in the air and Harry’s breath comes out a little bit harsher. It had been so much easier to talk about Noah before, when time had passed and Harry had felt a little bit lighter. But ever since Noah had tried calling him, the fear came rushing back. Back to square one.

“He . . . broke me.”

“How?”

Harry swallows. “Not tonight.”

“Okay.” Louis pauses. “You know, I wouldn’t break you.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I couldn’t hurt you.”

“I’ve already hurt  _ you _ .”

Louis wraps his arm around Harry’s waist. “Well, we’re talking it out now.”

Drops of melted snow are falling from the branches overhead, hitting Harry’s cheeks. “I’ve started seeing a therapist.”

“That’s great, Harry.”

He buries his face into Louis’ neck, away from the cold drops of water. “I’ve only had one session, but I think it will help. I just . . . be patient with me, yeah?”

Louis pulls him closer. “I’ll be with you every step of the way, love.”

“I really like you.” Harry whispers, pressing a soft kiss to the pulsing vein along Louis’ neck. He remembers scraping his teeth along this very same spot, his mind lost to the haze of alcohol and the hypnotic pull of Louis’ dancing. He wants to mark this spot as his — this vein, right here — because it’s a direct pathway to Louis’ heart. 

“Good. Otherwise this might be awkward.”

They both giggle, settling into a comfortable silence, pressing into the cold earth and closer together. Their hot breath intermingles as they stare at the stars in each other’s eyes. Stars that twinkle just for them. 

When the cold grows too cold and the ground too hard they escape into the hot tub, wearing nothing but their boxers, a pile of dripping wet clothes thrown off to the side. The harsh light and the bubbling water are loud and bright, but it’s no matter. 

Louis suggests they make a toast in celebration, and Harry has an awkward moment where he tries to explain that he’s trying to limit his drinking, and Louis only kisses the stuttering away. He leaves the hot tub and returns a minute later carrying a bag of weed and a bowl, silently asking the question,  _ Is this okay? _ to which Harry nods. 

They get high and shotgun into each other’s mouths, their breath falling into a natural rhythm. Eventually the shotgunning evolves into steady, slow kisses and Louis straddles Harry’s legs and their chests press together. The heat of the water and the smoke and their mouths is enough to thaw their bodies out until their skin is soft and pink. Harry doesn’t know how long they have been here, smoking and kissing and slowly grinding into one another, because time seems to have slipped away. Time doesn’t exist. Not here. Not tonight.

“Have you and Zayn ever . . .?”

“No.”

“You and Luke?”

Louis giggles against his mouth. “You were jealous.”

His face warms. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have been.”

“It’s okay to be jealous, Harry. It was hot.”

“Yeah?”

“God, yes. Why do you think I went into the bathroom?”

Harry growls and sucks on his lip. “So have you? With him?”

Louis groans. “Twice. In uni.”

“He’s hung up on you.”

“Well, I’m not interested.” 

“You should tell him.”

“If I do, can we keep kissing?”

“Yes.” 

Louis leans into his mouth again, but pulls back. “Have you . . . with anyone?”

“Ever?” Harry quirks an eyebrow and smirks.

“No, you prick. Since Noah?”

“Yes.”

He nods. “Okay.”

The kissing transforms into exploration, with Louis trailing kisses along Harry’s neck and the tattoos lining his collarbones and stomach and arms, fingers pressing against the pulse in his wrists and pinning him in place. Harry breathes in deep, dizzy with desire. His mind is lost in thoughts of Louis’ lips, asking silent questions along Harry’s skin, wondering, wandering, yearning to close the distance between them. 

Nothing else in the world compares to the feel of Louis’ lips. 

From the hot tub they move frantically to the bedroom, fingers roaming along the curvature of waists and hips and dipping into the dimples of backs and palms digging into cheeks. Harry pauses to pull out his last surprise, lighting candles around the room, the scent of vanilla and campfire filling his lungs. 

“This smell reminds me of you.” Harry murmurs. And Louis kisses him harder.

There’s a brief moment where they reach the bed and Harry freezes, his legs suddenly immobile. His brain and body are out of sync again, and he wants this so bad, but panic begins to settle in.

“You okay?” Louis whispers, his hands cradling Harry’s face and his eyes full of worry, and Harry has never felt so warm or safe in his life.

“I . . . it’s been a while.” It’s not the whole reason or the whole story, only a partial truth, but Louis nods.

“We can stop.”

“No. Just . . . let’s take it slow, yeah?”

[Song:  [ Wasted Time by Vance Joy ](https://youtu.be/ztotPvPA-mw) ]

They don’t have sex. But Louis grinds against Harry, pushing him into the mattress gently, their labored breaths mixing and filling the air. They don’t remove their boxers. And it’s just as good as any sex Harry’s ever had, if not better. The sensation of the fabric rubbing against him, mixed with the weight of Louis’ body and the shape of his cock and the thoughts of what it  _ would _ be like to be filled with him are enough to send Harry over the edge. He gasps into Louis’ mouth as he comes and hisses when the sensitivity hits, but he lets Louis ride out his high until he’s digging his fingers into Harry’s arms and licking into his mouth and whispering sweet nothings into his ear.

Their heavy breaths fill the silence and Harry wraps his arms behind Louis, pulling him impossibly closer. He watches the flickering light of the candles grow and shrink along the walls and ceiling. The sky is starting to pinken outside, announcing the start of a new day. New adventures. Harry holds onto this feeling, like he’s on the edge of something new and beautiful. The edge of happiness. 

Louis yawns in his ear and lifts his head, a soft smile on his face. “We should shower.”

The insinuation is there, but Harry asks, “Together?” and Louis laughs.

“Sorry, darling. But I would prefer to get clean, not dirty again.”

Harry grabs Louis’ hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “You’ve never called me darling. I like it.”

“Darling.” Louis leans forward and pecks his lips. Before Harry can pull him back down, he swings his legs over the edge of the bed and is standing up, arching his back as he stretches. Harry watches, appreciating the view as he walks across the room and out towards the bathroom.

The shower turns on and Harry lays in bed, breathing in and out. His thoughts are starting to catch up with him, and he shoves them back down. There’s no reason for them to be there, lurking. But it doesn’t matter. They come anyway.

Instead he focuses on the faint echo of Louis’ voice as he sings in the shower, his unique, full-bodied timbre working to calm Harry’s nerves and lull him into a more relaxed state of mind. He finds that he recognizes the song, and ends up joining in. Their voices fill the quiet morning, rising with the sun and harmonizing with the winter birds outside. It’s been so long since Harry has sang. Back before Noah, he used to sing all the time: while he was working, cleaning, cooking, showering. The habit came as naturally to him as breathing. 

But Noah had never let him sing, and when Noah had left him, he had stolen Harry’s voice. And Harry's had trouble finding it again. 

The song ends and the shower cuts off and Harry is left in the morning hush. He knows Louis will walk back at any moment, but he takes this time to drink in the stillness. He wants to savor it, bathe in it, become comfortable with being alone, not loneliness, so he can embrace the noise as it comes back to him. Because while Harry is silence, Louis is sound. And Harry wants to listen to him, memorize him, learn how to distinguish his signature frequency from the white noise of daily life.

His phone buzzing interrupts his thoughts, and Harry checks it. It’s a text from Niall:

_ I haven’t heard you sing in a long time _

_ I’m glad you’re happy _

+++

When Harry wakes up, Louis is curled away from him and snoring, but their fingers are still intertwined. He watches him sleep for a few minutes, admiring the youthful elegance of his cheekbones and the flutter of his eyelashes and the soft parting of his lips. He’s tempted to kiss him awake, to continue where they left off, but Harry’s lips are bruised and Louis looks so peaceful, so he decides to venture out of the bedroom and into the sitting room. 

Zayn is awake and sitting on the couch, a movie playing on the telly, Liam’s head resting on his shoulder and his eyes closed. Harry waves and Zayn smiles in greeting but brings a finger to his lips. 

“Good morning.” Harry whispers. Even though it’s evening.

“Morning.”

“How are you feeling?” He asks, leaning back on the recliner beside the love seat. The movie is  _ When Harry Met Sally _ , and Harry holds back a laugh at the irony. It’s one of his favorite older movies. And it happens to align with his current situation perfectly.

Zayn sighs. “I wish people would stop asking me that.”

“Louis told me about your condition.”

“I tried to tell you.” 

“No, you tried to show me.”

“Same difference.” He sounds tired, probably because he’s had this conversation before. Probably hundreds of times. It’s got to be draining.

“I’m sorry.” 

“Me too.”

“Is that why I’ve never seen you at one of Louis’ games?” He hadn’t realized until now. Zayn had never been there. He had thought that maybe Zayn was working behind the scenes, too busy to stand at the sidelines and cheer Louis on, but now he’s not so sure.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Louis is extra cautious. He doesn’t like me going outside for too long, regardless of weather, but especially when it starts to get colder or hotter.”

“I think he’s trying to protect you.”

He snorts. “I’ve far surpassed anyone’s expectations. My parents didn’t think I would survive, the doctor’s didn’t. Nobody. And I’m still here.”

“He was really scared.”

“I always end up fine. He shouldn’t have been.”

Harry bites his lip. “I don’t understand what you’ve had to go through, but you have a lot of people who care about you, Louis and Liam especially. I would keep that in mind next time you try to hurt yourself.”

“I know.” Zayn chokes, his eyes straying to the sleeping man leaning into him. “But it’s like . . . this urge inside me. I can’t stop searching for that one thing that might make me  _ feel _ .”

“You’re so focused on the physical part, mate. I’d imagine you have plenty of feelings on the inside. Why not focus on those?”

“It’s not the same.”

Harry shakes his head. “It’s not. It’s better.”

And . . . that was unexpected. Harry hadn’t intended to say those words — he hadn’t truly believed them — but as soon as they’ve left his mouth he realizes that it’s true. An infinity of kisses and unlimited sex is nothing compared to knowing you’re in love and being loved in return. 

But, then again, has he ever experienced true love? Before Noah, all of his relationships had been like planets orbiting one another, coming into contact briefly before flinging off in separate trajectories. He had never felt a significant pull or attachment to any person until Noah, and even then . . . he doesn’t know whether he was in love with Noah. He loved him, sure. He was infatuated with him. Obsessed with the idea of being in love with him. Obsessed with the idea of Noah loving him back. 

The relationship had been toxic from the get-go. Harry had recently lost his step father, hardly over his first wave of grief, when he and Noah had met at a bar in Manchester. Noah had chatted Harry up, made him feel good, complimented his clothes and hair and asked him for a dance. And Harry had been in awe, because Noah seemed to know just what to say and how to say it and he was charming and fit and Harry was lonely and sad.

They ended up heading back to Noah’s that night, where Noah fucked Harry into his mattress quick and rough. And Harry had cried and Noah had kissed the tears away. He was nice in the beginning, polite. He loved to shower Harry with gifts and throw him onto the bed and make him feel good and at the time Harry had thought that it was enough. Because wasn’t love supposed to feel good?

Louis makes him feel good in ways that Noah never had. That’s what had scared him most about this thing between them. He had known from the first moment that Louis is different. That he is kind-hearted and soft, yet brazen and tough. He makes Harry feel safe, but isn’t afraid to call him out on his shit. He loves pizza and practical jokes, loves twinkle lights and light teasing, loves singing in the shower and sending silly pictures to Harry just because he’s thinking of him.

And that’s where the difference lies. He thinks about Harry, listens to Harry, wants to get to know Harry. And Harry wants nothing but to do the same to Louis. 

“Oh, crap.” The words come out in a rush and Harry holds his head in his hands, trying to shake the thoughts away. He can’t be falling this hard, this fast. 

But he is. He has. He’s already hit the ground running.

A twinkle of humor fills Zayn’s eyes. “You look like you just made a shocking revelation.”

Harry groans. “I did.”

Zayn nods in understanding. “I get it. It’s a scary feeling.”

“What is?” Because Harry needs to hear someone else say it. He can’t say the words aloud himself. They are too big. Too scary.

“Falling in love.” 

Well, shit. Zayn is right. 

Harry is falling in love.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Louis run into some problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: MENTIONS OF EMOTIONAL/PSYCHOLOGICAL TRAUMA AND MANIPULATION, SEXUAL COERCION AND ABUSE A summary of the chapter will be included in the notes below for any person who is unable to read the following content. The first two sections and the last section are safe, though.

For their first official date, a week after their first kiss, Louis takes Harry to meet the entire Manchester United team. He doesn’t know how Louis pulls it off, or if he’s friends with them, or what, but Harry is shocked into silence as soon as it’s mentioned. 

“Are you pranking me? Is this a prank?” Harry asks when they’re on the phone.

Louis' laughter rings in his ear. “No, darling. I’d never be so cruel.”

“Manchester United? Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes, duh.”

It’s like something out of a storybook — or a superfan’s diary. Harry never thought that he would get the chance to meet one of England’s top-rated football teams, but when the day comes and Louis drives up to Old Trafford and the massive stadium walls are looming over them, Harry can’t help but squeal.

He turns towards Louis, his eyes shining. “I can’t believe you pulled this off.”

Louis scoffs. “I’m a footballer too, Harold. It wasn’t hard to get in contact.”

Harry stutters. “I know, it’s just, _Manchester United_.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Fangirl all you want, but I still think Chelsea is better.”

“Yeah, well, have you met Chelsea?”

“Yes.”

He pouts. “Not fair.”

“I’ve met a lot of premier teams. Most of it was because the national league wanted good PR and to appear less homophobic.” Louis’ tone is slightly bitter, and Harry’s heart stings.

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

Louis shakes his head and smiles tightly. “I mean, I got the better end of the deal, didn’t I? The players themselves are lovely. I’ve made some great friends and connections because of it.”

“Yeah, but, exploiting you isn’t okay.”

“That’s business.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Let’s go inside.”

The stands are completely empty and the stadium seems so much smaller without spectators and teams to fill it in. Walking onto the bright green field is a surreal moment. Harry has seen dozens of games played on this exact pitch on a screen, but never in-person. He can almost feel it — the ghost of seventy-six thousand voices filling the air and roaring in unison.

Louis’ hand squeezes Harry’s and he blinks. “You with me, love?”

“This place is incredible.”

“You’re incredible.”

Harry turns to him and grins. “That was cheesy.”

“I know. You’ve been a horrible influence.” Louis pulls Harry in and presses a firm kiss to his lips. “But I’m not complaining.”

He blushes. The past week has been filled with lots of kissing and compliments and late night conversations on the phone and cuddling in each other’s beds. It’s a lot to take in. And Harry can’t quite trust that any of this is real. Not yet. He’s pinched himself many times. 

The team begins filing out onto the field and Harry leans into Louis’ arms, hand squeezing too tight. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

And he means all of it. Manchester United. Louis. _Falling in love_. 

But Louis laughs and pulls on his arm, leading them further onto the pitch. “They’re normal people, love. Just like you and me.”

Harry shakes his head. “Obviously you don’t remember our first meeting.”

“Oh, I remember it vividly.”

Harry blushes deeper. “I don’t know how you found me attractive. All I did was embarrass myself.”

“That’s part of your charm, darling.”

They approach the center of the field where the team is now standing, fully donned in their uniforms and dribbling footballs between them. The players are so much bigger in person, brawnier. More handsome. Harry thinks he might be having a stroke. Louis drags Harry alongside him, squeezing Harry’s hand one last time before yelling from a couple yards away.

“Oi, laddie lads! Fancy meeting you here.”

Vincent Davies, Manchester United’s star striker, steps forward with a wide smile on his face and meets Louis halfway; they clasp their hands and pat each other on the back. “Louis, mate. Where’ve you been lately? We missed you at New Year’s.”

Harry’s eyes widen, but Louis grabs hold of his hand again, rubbing his thumb along Harry’s knuckles. “I was in Lancaster. Bit of a holiday getaway.”

Davies’ gaze flicks towards their interlocked hands and his grin widens. “Ah, so this is the bloke you won’t stop yammering on about.”

One of the other players, Oliver Taylor, wolf whistles. “He’s hot, Tommo. Nice catch.”

“Shut up, Taylor.” Louis rolls his eyes, smile softening around the edges. His cheeks have gone red and Harry joins his embarrassment. 

An arm shoots out towards Harry and he stares at it in awe for a moment before his brain finally catches up and he’s grabbing Vincent Davies’ hand in his own and shaking. The rest of the team snickers, but Davies only quirks an eyebrow. “Big fan?”

“Massive.” Harry croaks.

Another player, Hunter Robinson, yells from the back of the group. “Are we gonna play a game or what?”

Davies glances between Harry and Louis with raised brows. “What do you say? You up for a friendly game?”

Harry splutters. The world tilts to the side. Play a match with Manchester United? Is this real life? 

Louis brushes the pad of his thumb along Harry’s knuckle again. “Only if you promise to go easy on my boy.”

“He looks like he can handle it.” Taylor tosses the ball between his hands. 

Louis shrugs. “I’m only warning you. He’s got some nasty tricks.”

“Oh yeah? What kind?”

Louis’ smile is wicked. He looks at Harry with laughter in his eyes. “Well, one time he pantsed me.” 

The entire team gasps. Taylor clutches at his shorts, his face stricken. “That’s barbaric.”

“That’s _my_ barbarian, thank you.” 

Davies studies Harry. “Alright, we’ll go easy on you. But if you pants anyone, you’ll get pantsed in return. Fair is fair.”

Harry nods. The rest of the team grins. 

Playing with Manchester United is both intimidating and awe inspiring. Harry had thought that watching the Rovers and Louis play was impressive (which, it is) but Manchester is a league of their own. Their footwork is quick, mechanical. A well-oiled machine. They dribble and pass between one another so fast that Harry can’t even keep track of the ball. Their speed as they run up and down the pitch is unmatched. Their teamwork is unparalleled. And Louis meshes into the fray with ease. 

He watches Louis banter and play without breaking a sweat or struggling to keep up — in fact, some of the players on the team appear just as winded and flummoxed as Harry had been the first time he played with Louis. Because Louis’ style is not only skillful, it’s unique. He plays for fun, not to win. He pours one-hundred-and-ten-percent of his person into every game, not because he’s desperate to score, but because he _transforms_. He comes alive. He lives and breathes football. It’s his passion. And nobody else can match him.

The practice match ends with the team collapsing onto the faux green grass, their breaths coming out in ragged gasps. Louis sits down on the pitch beside Harry and wraps his arms around his knees. Harry lays beside him, dizzy and spent, hardly able to register the foot tapping against his own.

“How was that?”

“Bloody brilliant.”

Louis laughs. “I’m glad you had fun.”

“Thank you.” Harry rasps. 

“It was my pleasure.” Louis whispers, his gaze locked on Harry’s sweat drenched face.

They leave the stadium with handshakes and pats on the back and promises of _see you soon_. Some of the players offer Harry season tickets (front row) and he almost passes out. Louis has to drag him back to the car, one arm wrapped around his lower back and his laughter echoing in Harry’s ears.

Louis drives them away from the stadium, heading towards Harry’s flat, where they have plans to order in and watch movies and kiss for the rest of the night. Niall is with Ava for the weekend, and they have the place to themselves. As far as first dates go, Harry thinks this is the best one he’s ever had.

They’re nearly to the flat when Harry asks: “You talk about me?”

Louis bites his lip, eyes glued to the road. “Of course I do.”

“Do I even wanna know?”

“It’s all good things. Promise. My sisters can’t stand to talk to me anymore because I find any opportunity to mention you. They say I’m sickening.”

“Oh.”

Louis laughs. “I’m always impressed by your range in vocabulary.”

“Sorry.” Harry mumbles.

“Kidding, love. I find it endearing.” A slight pause. “I find everything about you endearing.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Harry nibbles at his lip and stares out the window. “I feel the same, you know.”

“It’s nice to hear.”

Harry kisses his palm. “I’ll try to say it more.”

Louis squeezes his hand in response. “Only do what makes you comfortable.”

The sentiment is appreciated, but Louis doesn’t get it. Harry wants to verbalize everything. But the words won’t come out. He wants to tell Louis that he’s all he ever thinks about, a singular thought playing on an endless loop in his mind; he wants to tell him that he loves his laughter and his smile, that his voice has become the soundtrack of his life; and most of all, he wants to tell Louis that he’s found the strength to give love another chance, that it’s all thanks to him.

They sit in silence while Harry squeezes Louis’ hand, hoping that magically, maybe, the words can be transferred through touch, and Louis will hear him loud and clear.

+++

Harry’s mum is insistent that, since Louis is already in town, the two of them should come over for Sunday roast. And it’s impossible to say no, because Louis is sitting right next to Harry while he’s on the phone with her, and can hear everything.

Before Harry can say a word, Louis is grabbing the phone from his hand and speaking into the receiver: “That would be lovely, Anne. Thank you.”

They arrive at Anne’s house the next day, with Louis wearing one of Harry’s nicer sweaters (navy blue and crocheted in a diamond stitch) and a pair of faded, light blue jeans with slits in the knees and the ankles rolled up. Harry tells him that he looks gorgeous, but Louis continues to fiddle with his sleeves. He’s clearly nervous, which is understandable. His first meeting with Harry’s family hadn’t been the most comfortable, and the two of them hadn’t been on the best terms at the moment. But Harry explains that his mum already adores Louis (she said as much on the phone) and Gemma will give him a hard time, but is harmless.

Louis nods, hand clenching around the car door’s handle. “Okay. I’m ready.”

Anne opens the front door as they walk up, her arms open wide. “Hello, honey.”

Harry goes to hug her. “Hi, mum.”

But Anne waves him off. “I meant Louis. Come here.”

She pulls Louis into a bone crushing hug and Harry can’t help but smile. He isn’t even offended that she went to hug Louis and not him. (He’d probably do the same thing.) When they break apart, Louis’ face is flushed red, but he’s grinning. 

“Hi, Anne. How are you?”

She puts her hands on her hips and cocks her head. “Better, now that you two finally worked things out. Harry’s been impossible for the past month. Always moping around the house.”

Harry’s mouth drops. “Mum!”

Anne rolls her eyes. “Honestly, honey. I love you, but you were a bit of a mess.”

Louis’ eyes gleam. He doesn’t say a word.

“Right, well. You didn’t have to mention it.” Harry sucks on his teeth, not making eye contact with either of them. He’s been here for less than five minutes and he’s already been embarrassed. Jesus. Next thing you know, his mum is going to pull out the baby pictures.

Which, of course, is exactly what happens. 

While the roast finishes up, Anne, Harry, and Louis sit around the coffee table poring over pages and pages of Harry and Gemma during their childhood. Anne points out photos of Harry wearing her bras and sitting in the bubble bath and dressed up in his dalmation costume and Louis drinks it all up, laughing and glancing at Harry with crinkly eyes. And Harry’s too enamored to do anything but stare. 

As soon as Gemma shows up and the roast is ready, they all sit around the small, rickety old dining table with glasses of wine filled to the brim. Anne makes a toast to the ‘happy couple’ and Gemma rolls her eyes while Harry and Louis blush. 

“What are your intentions with my brother?” Is Gemma’s first question, and Harry groans.

Louis smiles. “I intend to date him.”

She narrows her eyes. “Only date? No marriage or babies? No future?”

Harry almost chokes on his tofu. “Gemma!”

“I intend to have him for as long as he’ll have me,” Louis says. His eyes roam over Harry’s face, softening around the edges.

Satisfied, Gemma turns to Harry with an innocent look. “What? You can grill my boyfriends but I can’t grill yours?”

“That’s not—” 

“Harry, Gemma, please.” Anne interrupts and turns to Louis conspiratorially. “Always bickering, these two.”

Louis shakes his head. “This is nothing. I’ve got five sisters and a brother. There’s never a dull moment.”

Gemma spits out a bit of wine. “That’s a big family.”

“You’re mum must have her hands full.” Anne smiles.

Harry wants to smash his head against the table. “Mum, stop.”

Louis’ face has paled and he grimaces. “Actually, me mum passed away last year. It’s just me, my siblings, and me step dad now.”

“Oh, dear. I’m so sorry.” Anne clutches at her chest, seeming heartbroken. “It’s an awful thing, losing a parent.”

“It is.” Louis swallows, blinking rapidly.

Gemma, in a fit of uncharacteristic gentleness, reaches over to grab Louis’ hand. He looks over at her and smiles softly. It’s a fleeting moment, but Harry’s heart can’t help but swell at the sight and he relaxes. He had known that Gemma and his mum would love Louis, but a little smudge of fear and uncertainty had been lingering underneath. Within a matter of seconds, it’s been squashed. 

For the rest of dinner, Anne and Gemma make light conversation, asking Louis about his siblings (“Lottie is a fashionista, and Fizzy is going into social work, and Phoebe and Daisy both adore animals, so I imagine they’ll go that route . . .”); his step dad (“Mark’s been great. Don’t know how we would’ve managed without him.”); and his life in Doncaster (“Donny’s a great place to live. Don’t know if I’ll stay forever, but at least until the young ones grow up a bit.”) while Harry settles into the background, watching them interact with a small smile on his face.

Louis offers to help with the dishes, of course, but Anne is having none of it. She guides him into the sitting room with Harry and Gemma and insists that they all sit and relax and find a movie to put on. He lasts about five minutes before he’s wandering back into the kitchen, and he doesn’t come back. 

Gemma glances at Harry after they settle on _Atonement_ and moves her feet underneath his legs. “You’re looking better now.”

Harry bites his lip, gaze straying towards the kitchen. He can hear the low rumble of Louis’ voice mingling with the running faucet. “You think so?”

“Harry, you were miserable before.”

He tries to strain his ears, but can’t make out what Louis is saying. “I was being dumb.”

Gemma snorts. “You’re always dumb. But you two seem good together. I like Louis.”

“I thought you might.”

“He’s kind. You deserve someone like that.”

The faucet stops running and Harry can still hear Louis’ voice, but the words are muffled by the wall. He doesn’t know why he’s trying so hard to listen in. His mum and Louis are clearly having a conversation, and he’s almost positive it’s about him. Maybe that’s why. His curiosity is getting the better of him.

“I need a drink of water. You want anything?”

Gemma eyes him. “Harry, don’t eavesdrop.”

He blinks innocently. “I’m thirsty.”

“You’re such an awful liar.”

“Why does everyone say that?”

“Because it’s true.”

He frowns. “I’m thirsty.”

Gemma sighs and waves him off. Harry creeps down the darkened hallway and rests his head against the wall, his face inches from the doorway. He peeks into the room and sees Louis and Anne with their backs to him, both holding towels and wiping down the clean dishes before putting them away. 

Anne takes a stack of plates and places them in the open cupboard. “I think you’re good for him. He’s in his head a lot. He needs someone who can ground him.”

Louis shakes his head. “I don’t know if I’ve done a very good job so far, but I’m trying.”

“I’ve watched Harry lose his spark, especially in the last few years. These past months, I think he’s started to gain it back. And I think you’ve had a big part in that."

“Didn’t you say he was miserable last month?”

Anne chuckles. “Yes, but that was because he wasn’t with you.”

“He could’ve been.” Louis mumbles, holding a pot up to Anne in question. She points to a lower cupboard and he puts it away. 

“He’s had a lot of issues with relationships. Especially his last one. I think he was afraid of his feelings for you. He doesn’t like being vulnerable.”

Louis nods and pauses. “You know that — I just want to make my intentions clear. I would never hurt Harry. I—” 

“I know.”

“Is it possible to love someone so early on?” Louis’ hands squeeze around a single plate as he stares at Anne. 

At the word ‘love,’ Harry’s heart stammers. Blood rushes into his ears. He can’t have heard that correctly. Louis loves Harry. He _loves_ Harry. 

Anne turns her body towards Louis. “Is that how you feel?”

Louis swallows and nods, and then, as if to emphasize his point: “I love him.”

There’s no longer any sound being processed. Harry’s ears are ringing and he pushes away from the wall, tiptoeing away from the kitchen as he steadies his breath. _I love him. I love him. I love him._ The words fill him up inside until there’s a pressure building in his chest and he doesn’t know whether he wants to scream or laugh or both. 

He re-enters the sitting room and Gemma looks up at him, eyebrow quirked. “No water, I see.”

Harry doesn’t respond. Just collapses into the armchair beside the couch.

Gemma sits up straighter. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“He loves me.” Harry croaks. He doesn’t know what to do with this information, but his fingers and toes begin to warm. Everything within him that was frozen is starting to defrost.

Gemma is unimpressed. “I thought it was obvious.”

Not to Harry. Then again, Harry has been focusing his hardest on trying to slow down his own heart, to steady his own breathing and keep himself from falling headfirst into quicksand. Ever since he came to his own realization, it’s been difficult to focus on anything else, let alone whether or not Louis felt the same way.

Harry bites back a smile. Louis loves him.

+++

“I found the bag of . . . stuff in my coat closet.”

“What bag of — oh.” Harry pauses. The bag of condoms and lube.

Louis raises a brow. “I’m assuming that was Niall?”

Harry nods his head and swallows. They are sitting on the couch in Louis’ living room, cuddling underneath a heavy blanket while _Love Actually_ plays on the television. “He has a unique sense of humor.”

“Hmm. I’ll never turn down free supplies. I’ll have to pass along my thanks.”

It takes a moment for Harry to understand the implication, and when he does, his body reacts without his permission. “Oh. You kept it all?”

Louis snorts and tugs at a strand of Harry’s hair. “Well, I wasn’t going to throw it away. Condoms and lube are expensive.”

“Right.”

Silence settles. Louis' hand is buried in Harry’s hair and scratching at his scalp. Harry’s eyes flutter. It’s been two weeks since the cabin, two weeks since they first rubbed off against one another. (And two more sessions of therapy.) And so far, it’s been good. There’s been kissing (so much kissing) and the occasional grinding, but Harry knows that Louis wants more. 

The problem is that Harry wants more, too. Yet every time they get to a point where the next step would lead to full nudity, Harry’s body locks up and he starts to tremble. And it’s frustrating, because as deep as Harry’s desire runs, he can’t seem to do it. Louis is patient — so fucking patient — and every time Harry hesitates, he kisses Harry and whispers reassurances and they end up falling asleep cuddled in each other’s arms.

Louis stops scratching at his scalp and pauses the telly. “You okay?”

He’s looking at Harry the way Niall often does when he knows something’s wrong, like he can see into Harry’s soul and pick apart his complicated, twisted emotions without breaking a sweat. 

Harry closes his eyes. “Yeah.”

Before he can think too much, Harry twists in Louis’ arms and situates himself so he’s balancing on Louis’ lap. Louis blinks and gazes up at him with wide eyes, his mouth slightly parted. There’s an instant change in the air between them, gone from gentle to roused, and Harry leans into Louis and presses a lingering kiss to his lips. Louis sinks further into the cushions, wrapping his arms around Harry’s bum and pulling him closer. 

Kissing Louis is easy. So easy, in fact, that Harry often gets lost in it. He could sit for hours or days with nothing to do but explore Louis’ mouth and discover new ways to pull a soft, breathy sigh or a deep, needful moan out of him. He loves being able to leave Louis breathless and wrecked. Pliant underneath the slightest touch. 

But Harry is determined to go further. Because he can do this. He wants this.

He grinds down against Louis, pleased to find him already half-hard. Louis gasps into his mouth and his body jolts upwards. They continue like that for a few minutes, grinding and kissing. Harry’s hands roam along Louis’ chest and he tugs at his shirt; Louis removes it without a word. They end up in nothing but their underwear, panting into the air, their moans filling the quiet flat. 

Everything else fades into the background. Harry forces himself to focus on the here and now, on Louis’ lips on his and his hands cradling his ass and the way they fit together so well. Almost seamlessly. But then, as soon as Louis’ fingers thumb at the edges of his briefs, Harry’s body is locking up. He freezes under Louis’ touch, and Louis — with the gentlest of smiles — rubs his back. But Harry huffs in frustration.

“Harry, it’s okay.”

Tears form in the corners of his eyes and Harry pushes away from Louis, rubbing at his face. “No. It’s not okay!”

“C’mere, love.”

Instead of taking Louis’ outstretched hand, Harry drops to his knees, hands running up and down Louis’ thighs. He palms Louis’ hard-on and licks his lips. He can do this. “Let me — wanna make you feel good.” 

Louis stares at him, his jaw working. “Harry.”

“Please.” He slips his fingers underneath the waistband of Louis’ briefs, a thrill running down from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes. He can’t help but stare at how big Louis is.

Gentle hands wrap around his wrists. “Darling. Look at me.”

Harry, reluctantly, locks eyes with Louis. 

“Are you doing this because you think you have to?”

He shakes his head.

But Louis sighs, unbelieving. “You have nothing to prove to me, or to yourself.”

His lip wobbles. “So you’re not angry?”

A perplexed expression fills Louis’ face. “Why on earth would I be angry?”

“I just — I don’t want you to be upset that we’re moving so slow.”

“I don’t think we’re moving slow.”

“I know you want more.”

“Yes, I do. But when you're ready.”

“I am.” He’s not. He knows he’s not.

Louis stares at him with sad eyes. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Harry stares up at him, vision blurred. He can’t move.

“Harry . . . did Noah — did he make you think you had to do things to make him happy?”

At that moment, Harry hates that Louis can see his face. He crumbles on the floor without meaning to, his body trembling against Louis’ legs. And that must be answer enough, because Louis pulls him into his lap, shushing Harry and stroking his arms and massaging his hands with careful movements. 

“Shh, it’s okay darling. It’s okay.” 

The floodgates crack open wide and everything he’s been keeping inside is rushing to escape. Hot tears run down his cheeks and onto his neck and the couch and Louis is pressing kisses to his spine and Harry thinks he can hear sniffles that aren’t his. 

Louis laces their fingers together. “You make me so happy. You don’t need to do anything.” 

“I want to, though.” Harry chokes. 

Another kiss is pressed against his shoulder blade. “And we will, when you’re ready.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Louis’ hold tightens. “Nothing is wrong with you. You’re perfect.”

That’s impossible to believe, when they both know that Harry is anything but perfect. He’s broken and bruised. Still healing from the scars of the past and waiting for the blood to dry. Every time he thinks he’s taken one step forward, he’s actually remained in one place. He feels doomed to stay here forever. Unable to untangle the strings around his heart. 

“It’s a process, darling. You’ll get there eventually,” Louis says. Because he can read Harry’s mind. He always can. Or maybe Harry’s simply been cut open so many times that he’s too easy to read. His thoughts are on display, bleeding out onto the floor whether he likes it or not.

Harry leans into his chest. “I hope so.”

“I know so.”

There is no way for him to know, but the words comfort Harry nonetheless. He closes his eyes while Louis rubs soothing circles into his skin and scratches at his scalp, lulling him to sleep. An inexplicable sense of calm comes over him. Because Louis loves Harry. Would never hurt Harry. And that’s something Harry is slowly beginning to understand.

+++

Song: [ For What It’s Worth by Liam Gallagher ](https://youtu.be/oAVlZxt1GHU)

The next morning, Harry decides to share. 

They’ve been tiptoeing around the Noah issue for two weeks now, and Harry knows Louis is dying to talk about it, but also won’t be the first to broach the subject. And, well, it’s been gnawing away at Harry for a while. Talking to Brenda has helped, but after only two more sessions, he’s hardly scraped the surface. He doesn’t want to wait to process it all with a therapist. Louis deserves to hear at least some of it.

He prepares an entire breakfast for the occasion — which, in retrospect, seems rather odd. Harry needs something to do with his hands, however. Needs to occupy his mind and settle his nerves. He cooks eggs and sausages and beans on toast and Yorkshire tea, setting them all on the dining table along with a pitcher of orange juice. 

Louis walks out to the scene, rumpled with sleep, wearing a tired, but pleased smile. “What’s all this?”

Harry twists the rings on his fingers. “I thought we could talk.”

Maintaining a neutral expression, Louis says, “Okay.”

They sit down and eat breakfast in silence. Harry doesn’t know how to start, or where, or what he wants to say, exactly, so he busies his hands and mouth. The food is bland on his tongue. 

It takes a full ten minutes before his nerves settle. “I — well, first of all, I wanted to say thank you. For um, being patient and understanding. I guess I’m not really, like, used to that.”

Louis remains silent, but he reaches his hand out towards Harry, who takes it with a small smile. This is what he needs. A steady hand. A grounding force.

He breathes in deep. “I’ve been thinking a lot about last night and, like, why I can’t seem to . . . you know. It’s been a while for me, but I mean, I’ve done stuff after Noah. So I was thinking about why it seems so much harder with you, and I think it’s because you’re important to me. And, like, after Noah, I had the tendency to distance myself, you know, emotionally. I never let anyone in after him, so the sex was always sort of . . . cheap? I never invested myself in it. It was something I did, mostly, to ignore the pain.”

“Before that, sex had been an emotional thing for me. To me, it’s the ultimate connection between two people. You know, almost like you’re shedding your skin. You’re completely exposed, both physically and emotionally. Before you, I had closed that part of me off. And now that I’m opening myself up again, it’s been . . . difficult. Noah was the last person I loved who I slept with, and he broke me. I guess there’s this underlying fear that you’ll break me, too. Even though, in my head, I don’t think you would. My body hasn’t caught up yet, I suppose.”

Louis squeezes his hand, a few stray tears sliding down his cheeks. “And, uh, if you don’t mind me asking, what exactly happened between you and Noah?”

Harry looks out towards the balcony, the sun hanging low in the sky. “He . . . wasn’t a good boyfriend. At first he was. He liked to have fun and he made me feel good. But after a while, it seemed like everything I did annoyed him. He started telling me I couldn’t do certain things or see certain people. He hated the way I dressed and how long my hair was. He found out all of my insecurities and weaponized them against me. I . . . at the time, I was too infatuated to see the signs. Niall tried to convince me to leave him, and my sister and mum, and all of my other friends. They saw right through him. Meanwhile, I couldn’t give him up. He made me think that I was the one who needed to change to make him happy, that if I could just be who he wanted me to be, things would be better . . .”

He trails off, lost in his memories. A kiss to his knuckles brings him back and he blinks at Louis with wet eyes. “I wasted almost two years of my life dating him, and two years of my life picking up the pieces. And about a year ago, he started calling me while he was drunk, and I never picked up. But I also couldn’t block his number. It was like I was clinging to the past, or something. And then a couple months back, I decided to answer, just so I could tell him off, and we started having it out. And afterwards, it was like all the progress I’d made had been lost.”

Harry pulls out his phone, scrolling through his photo albums until he pulls up the correct one. He slides his phone across the table towards Louis, his eyes straying outside once more. “Those are the texts he sent me that night. After our phone call.”

Louis scrolls through the screenshots and reads, his jaw tense. “Harry, why in the world would you keep these?”

There’s no easy way to explain it. “It’s a reminder.”

“A reminder of what?”

His eyes close while Louis scrolls. He doesn’t need to look at the phone to know what they say. He can picture the texts clearly behind his eyelids: _you’re fucking ugly;_ _you were a piece of shit then and you’re a piece of shit now;_ _you’ll never find anyone to love you ever again;_ and his personal favorite, _you’re worthless._

“That love is a weakness. And when you love someone, they’re the ones who can cut you the deepest.” 

+++

He tries to explain these exact feelings to Brenda, and she nods along and scribbles in her notes. She says that his reaction is typical of abuse survivors. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. 

“You’ve put up these defenses as a coping mechanism to your trauma,” she explains. “The only way to process this trauma is to remove these defenses that have kept you from processing your grief and your anger. We'll work through these stuck points one-by-one together. Through this, you'll begin to accept that these things happened to you, and that you survived."

And so he tries. 

Louis sits down with him and deletes the album filled with texts. It doesn’t feel as liberating as Harry hoped it would. But it’s progress.

(“You don’t need to carry the past in your pocket, Harry.”

Harry’s finger hovers over the trash symbol. “I know.”

And then Louis’ hands circle his wrists, finding his pulse and pressing down. “You’re stronger than you know. I don’t think you’re weak.”

“I didn’t say—” 

“I know. But this—” Louis presses his thumb against the bluish vein beneath Harry’s pale skin. “This isn’t weakness.”

“Okay.”

Louis’ returning gaze is searching; Harry gets lost in his eyes. Deletes the album without a second thought.)

He talks about Noah with Brenda, and Niall, and Liam, and Louis. He tries to work through his experiences, but it’s difficult. He doesn't want to relive those memories, or think about the past. But it helps. If only slightly.

 _Baby steps,_ his mum tells him. Healing is full of baby steps.

+++

It’s a rare day where Harry isn’t with Louis and Niall isn’t with Ava, so the two have decided to rekindle their weekend tradition. _Pretty Woman_ is playing on the television and there’s a pile of snacks and empty wrappers on the coffee table. 

The scrabble board is arranged precariously on the couch cushion between them. Harry is currently losing, but he’s got a potential triple word score up his sleeve. He watches Niall stare at his tiles, hoping that he doesn’t go for the same spot on the board.

Niall picks up a tile and starts laying out his word in a different place. Harry releases a breath. But when he sees the word, he purses his lips. “Sexy?”

“Hell yeah. And my X fell on a double letter. So I believe that’s twenty-two points.”

Harry smiles. “Ooh, twenty-two. I’m so scared.”

“Yeah? Let’s see what you got.”

He lays his word (hazmat) out on the board, smiling as Niall gapes when he claims the triple word spot. “I believe that’s sixty points for me.”

Niall pouts. “I don’t wanna play anymore.”

“Oh, so when _I’m_ a sore loser, I’m not ‘fully appreciating the game,’ but when _you’re_ losing, suddenly it’s okay to quit.”

“Yup. Pretty much.” Niall sticks his tongue out and swipes the tiles back into the box. Harry sighs and folds the board back up, fitting everything neatly into place before setting it amidst the chaos on the table. 

They pay attention to the movie and eat an obscene amount of junk food and talk about their week. Niall’s arm is curled around Harry’s shoulders, and it feels exactly like it did before. Except now, Niall is with Ava and head over heels and Harry is with Louis and . . . happy. 

“I got an update on the LGBT center . . . I thought you might like to write an article on it. Keep it fresh in people’s minds,” Niall says. He shoves a handful of prawn cocktail crisps in his mouth and Harry wrinkles his nose.

“Of course I will. Just tell me what you have and I’ll write something up.”

“Cool. Also, I thought you, Ava, and I could do something together. Louis can come, too.”

“That sounds nice.” And he means it. He misses Niall, and would like to get to know Ava better.

“And Liam and Zayn are having a dinner party at Zayn’s next week.”

“Ah, right.” Louis had mentioned something about that. He had never been to Zayn’s flat, but Liam had gushed about how posh it was once. All he could remember was him explaining in excruciating detail the color of Zayn’s sitting room walls. Mauve, maybe?

Niall snorts. “They’re like an old married couple already. Though I guess I can’t say shit.”

“The minute you and Ava throw a dinner party, I’ll know that I’ve been given the boot.”

“Aww, H. Don’t be jealous. I can throw a dinner party with you, if you want.”

Harry rolls his eyes and pokes Niall’s ribcage. “So I can do all the cooking? No way.”

A retort bubbles on Niall’s lips, but dies once Harry’s phone starts to ring. They both turn to stare at it. It’s a Yorkshire number that Harry doesn’t recognize. His immediate thought is that Zayn is hurt. He picks up the phone with trembling hands. “Hullo?”

“Hi, is this Harry Styles?” A young woman chirps.

“Yes.” 

“My name is Elise. I’m with The Daily Voice here in Yorkshire. You submitted an application with us about two months ago. So sorry for the late response. But we think you’re a competitive candidate for our Editor position that’s just opened up and would like to set up an interview. Are you interested?”

He doesn’t remember applying to any newspapers in Yorkshire at all. But hearing the word ‘editor’ almost makes Harry topple over, and he finds himself gripping onto Niall’s arm for support. “Editor? For real?”

The woman, Elise, laughs. “Yes, Mr. Styles. Should I set up an interview, then?”

“Absolutely.”

“It looks like we have an opening for Monday at 3 P.M. Does that work for you?”

Harry nods, until he realizes that Elise can’t see him. “Yeah. It’s perfect.”

“Great. We’ll see you then!”

He hangs up the phone and turns to Niall, who’s staring at him with wide eyes. “What was that all about?”

Harry laughs. He can’t believe it. “I got an interview for an Editor job.”

“Shut the fuck up. Seriously?” 

A rush of breath is pushed out of Harry as Niall dives into him, arms thrown around his waist and face pressed into his chest. Harry laughs in surprise but returns the hug. “Yeah, seriously.”

Niall pulls back to stare at him. “That’s fucking incredible mate.”

Harry’s smile falls a bit. “But it’s in Yorkshire.”

His friend shrugs. “Closer to Louis.”

“But farther from you. From my mum and sister.”

“It’s only two hours. You’ve been making the drive to see Louis.” Niall points out.

“Yeah, but—”

“No buts, H. This is _good_ , okay? Let yourself have this.”

“Okay.” 

There isn’t much else to say. This is good, like Niall said. Everything is good. Louis is good. His family is good. His friends are good. It seems like life is finally beginning to fall into place. After waiting so long for happiness, for joy to come back to him, Harry should be thrilled. Ecstatic, even. 

But all he can think about is how this is all too good to be true.

+++

**LGBT Youth Center Renovations On the Way by Harry Styles**

_ Last month, the Doncaster Rovers and Holmes Chapel Hurricanes participated in a local charity match to raise funds for the renovation of a local LGBT Youth Center. The funds raised totaled around £85,000.  _

_ The Proud Trust, one of the partners of this project, has started working with local contractors in order to design plans for the upcoming renovations. The plans so far consist of an updated technology room, new all-gender bathrooms, as well as an entirely new space for events and meetings to be held. _

_ A few local LGBT high school clubs have also decided to offer their assistance, and have planned to do a mural on both the outside and inside of the Center to "create a fun, inclusive space for everyone."  _

_ This project, headed by local entrepreneur and philanthropist, Niall Horan, has drawn in people from all walks of life who have been moved by kindness to help with the cause. "It's incredible to see so many people come together to help out our small community. This has been a rather unique, and rewarding, experience." _

_ The renovations for the LGBT Youth Center are expected to begin on March 1st. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter summary: *only the sections with sensitive content are summarized here*
> 
> Harry and Louis are watching a movie when Louis mentions that he found the bag of condoms and lube. Harry tries to initiate more than kissing/grinding (all they've done so far) and give Louis a blowjob, but Louis stops him. Asks if Harry feels like he has to and if Noah made him feel that way. Lots of crying. Harry talks it out with Louis the next morning, describing his toxic, volatile relationship with Noah and various ways in which Noah hurt him. Shows Louis an album filled with screenshots of Noah's abusive texts. Harry discusses it at therapy. He and Louis delete the album together. Harry learns to talk about Noah more.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's past comes knocking . . . again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: MENTIONS OF PSYCHOLOGICAL TRAUMA/ABUSE, PANIC ATTACKS, AND VIOLENCE; A FEW MENTIONS OF HOMOPHOBIC LANGUAGE. INCLUDES SCENES WITH RECREATIONAL DRUG USE.

Harry is in high spirits. His interview yesterday in Yorkshire had gone well and the man who he spoke with, Mitch, told him that they had one last interview, but that Harry pretty much had the job in the bag. If he wanted it. Two hours later, Harry had gotten a callback. And now, he’s officially going to be Editor for  _ The Daily Voice _ , starting in three months.

The past two days have been a whirlwind of emotions, and Louis has been supporting him through it all. When Harry had called him with the news, he picked up immediately, and the two of them had screamed incoherencies over the phone.

It had been tempting, in the moment, to drive over to Louis’ flat and celebrate for real, maybe pop a bottle of champagne and press Louis against the wall and take him apart with just his mouth. But Harry has already missed more work than he’d originally intended, and Louis agreed that he needed to end his time with the  _ Holmes Chapel Gazette _ on positive terms. So Harry drove the two hours home, alone, bouncing in his seat the entire time, shouting along to Shania Twain and grinning wildly. He and Niall ordered pizza and drank beer and cuddled on the couch — their own unique form of celebration. Louis had been at practice yesterday, and Harry had worked for most of the day today, but they have plans to go out to dinner tonight to celebrate. 

He has about an hour before Louis arrives, and Harry takes the opportunity to continue blasting Shania Twain throughout the flat (while Niall complains from his room) and indulge in one of his favorite face masks, meanwhile sifting through his closet and stressing over what to wear. He could wear his favorite baby blue sweater with a baby chick breaking out of an egg, the words ‘Mon petit’ etched in red below. But that might be too casual. He wants tonight to be special. Unforgettable. 

Harry decides on a sparkling, pink top that has a loose tie around the neck, matched with a pair of black skinny jeans and the brand new Vans Gemma bought him. He figures it’s the perfect compromise between formal and casual. (Plus, the outfit matches his pink nails.) Louis will love it. 

When he shows Niall his outfit, twirling in a dramatic pirouette, his friend whistles. “Looking good, H.” 

He flips his hair dramatically. “I know.”

A minute later, there’s a knock at the door. Harry skips to answer it, hardly attempting to hold back his smile. He can’t wait for dinner. Knowing Louis, it’ll probably be some obscure, but delicious restaurant in Manchester. Sounds heavenly.

[Song:  [ Moral of the Story by Ashe ft. Niall Horan ](https://youtu.be/VLRVasfC_gc) ]

Harry swings the door open, beaming. “Helllll—oh.”

His gaze is met with a familiar pair of hazel eyes. Harry’s body freezes.

“Hi, Harry.” 

“Noah.”

He hasn’t seen Noah’s face in almost two years, but he would recognize it anywhere. Despite his dirty blonde hair being cropped shorter, and his cheeks more filled out, Noah looks the same as ever. He’s sporting a full moustache and beard these days and donned in his signature flannel and jeans. Back when they were dating — hell, even a few months ago — Harry would probably be drooling. But now he stares, unimpressed. 

Noah rubs his hands together and looks past Harry’s shoulder. “Can I come in?”

“I—” 

“Just for a few minutes.” His voice is pleading. And, well, that’s new. Noah had never been one to beg.

Harry knows he should say no, turn Noah away, and put everything behind him. But he can’t deny that he’s curious. Here Noah stands: arriving out of the blue and fluttering his eyelashes and asking Harry to come in. His mind is having trouble processing the fact that he’s here in the first place. He steps aside wordlessly.

In a perfect world, Louis would show up right now. He would see Noah standing there, notice the way Harry’s shoulders were curling inwards, and he would know. He would wrap his arms around Harry and tell Noah to piss off. Or, Niall would walk out of his bedroom and chase Noah out of the flat. In a perfect world, Harry would never give Noah the time of day again. But this world is not perfect. Neither is Harry.

They end up in the sitting room, with Harry on one side of the L-shaped couch and Noah on the other. The awkward silence fills the room, crowding the space between them until it almost feels like Noah is right beside him. Sucking the air out of his lungs and breathing down his neck.

Noah is the first to speak. “You look good.”

“Thanks.” 

“Do you still live alone?”

Harry stiffens. “No. Niall is here."

“Oh. I always liked him.”

“Right.” 

Another beat of silence. Harry watches Noah’s face, trying to understand why he’s here, while Noah is as impassive as ever. He gazes calmly back at Harry, his eyes steady.

“I missed you,” he says. 

And Harry can’t help it. He snorts.

Noah’s face falls. Hardly. But noticeable. “I did.”

“Why are you here?”

“I wanted to talk.”

“Okay.” Harry rubs his palms on the couch. He’s trying his best not to fidget. To appear calm and collected. 

Noah inches closer and Harry freezes again. “How are you?”

“Fine.” He’s trying not to move as Noah slowly closes the gap between them.

“Are you . . . seeing anyone?”

“Yes.” 

“Is it that football guy?”

The jealousy in Noah’s voice is what stops him, more than the fact that Noah even knew about Louis to begin with. But he asks: “How do you know about him?”

It’s Noah’s turn to snort. “It was all over every bloody social media page, wasn’t it? I couldn’t escape.”

“Is that why you’re here?” He knew this would happen one day. Harry would move on, and right at the point where he started to allow himself to be happy again, Noah would come crashing back into his life.

“You haven’t returned any of my calls.”

“No.”

A frustrated noise comes from the back of Noah’s throat. “Can’t you just . . . talk to me? Like a fucking person?”

Harry’s body locks up completely and he can’t look Noah in the eye. He’s using the same tone he used to. Berating. Degrading. Acting as if Harry is the one in the wrong. And Harry’s not strong enough for this. He can’t sit here and act like any of this is okay. 

There’s a knock at the front door and Harry’s head snaps up. He goes to stand, but Noah points a finger at him like he’s a dog. “Don’t.”

The door knob jiggles and then Louis is bounding into the flat, his voice already flooding the space. A tidal wave of warmth and safety and  _ home _ crashes into Harry. His muscles begin to relax.

“Harry, darling. Are you still getting ready?” Harry can see him slipping off his fur-lined jacket in the kitchen, but Louis hasn’t caught sight of the two of them yet. “We have a reservation to make. You’re gonna love this place.”

As soon as Louis walks into the sitting room, the smile slips from his face. He and Harry make brief eye contact before those baby blues are cutting daggers towards Noah.

“Who’s this?” It’s a rhetorical question. He knows who it is.

Noah stands. “Noah. And you?”

Louis circles around the couch, leaving a wide berth between himself and Noah. He slips beside Harry and presses their thighs together, hand pressing reassuringly against his knee. Noah’s eyes narrow at the physical contact. “I’m Louis.” 

“Right. The footy player Haz is obsessed with.”

Louis’ jaw locks. “Don’t call him that.”

Noah crosses his arms. He’s still standing. “What?”

“You don't deserve to say his name, let alone give him nicknames.”

“You’re not his fucking keeper.”

Louis hand clenches around Harry’s knee. “He doesn’t need anyone to  _ keep _ him.”

“So stop speaking for him.” His voice begins to rise. He looks towards Harry, whose gaze is on the ground. “Harry, seriously. This is who you’re with?”

The click of a bedroom door echoes in Harry’s ears and he closes his eyes. There’s not enough air in this room. Louis moves his hand and massages the base of Harry’s neck. All Harry wants is to disappear. 

“Noah.” Niall leans against the wall nearest to the hallway, his face expressionless.

The other man turns towards him and he smiles. He actually fucking  _ smiles _ . “Niall, mate. How are you?”

“I think you should leave. Mate.”

Noah pauses. “I came to talk to Harry.”

Harry shakes his head. "I'm not interested."

“You have no business speaking with him. He doesn’t want you here.” Louis adds.

“Fuck off. I’d rather talk to him alone, if you don’t mind.”

“I do fucking mind.”

Then, like it always does, Noah’s facade drops. His face contorts. The mask melts away. He takes a step towards Louis. “Listen, you fucking fairy—” 

Before anyone else in the room can react, Noah is on the ground. 

Niall has jumped on him, straddling his legs and throwing punch after punch into his face, jaw, and throat. He doesn’t seem to be slowing down. Noah’s face is bloodied and bruised already, but Niall keeps going. Harry is at the wrong angle, so he can’t see Niall’s expression. But he doesn’t have to. 

He’s only ever seen Niall get like this twice before. The first time was in grade school, when the neighborhood bully called Harry a ‘fucking queer’ before either of them had known what the word implied. But the note in the bully’s voice, the disgust, was enough to send Niall over the edge. The second time was in college when they had been at a party and this guy wouldn’t stop stalking one of their friends. She kept begging him to leave her alone, but he was a drunken asshole who thought she owed him something simply by existing. Niall had taken him outside and beaten him into the dirt.

And Harry’s in awe. Because Niall is one of the most pacifistic people he knows. He prefers to spread love and radiate light. It takes a lot for him to lose his shit — and threatening the people he cares about is the way to do it. 

His heart warms. Harry watches as Louis’ hands leave him, moving towards Niall and Noah’s battered body and peeling Niall away and holding his shaking arms in both hands. Louis takes a deep breath and motions for Niall to do the same. They stand there, breathing deep until Niall regains control of himself.

Neither of them spare Noah — who’s groaning in pain on the floor — a second glance. Both Niall and Louis turn towards Harry with worried eyes.

“Are you okay?” Niall asks. 

His knuckles are bloodied, but he doesn’t pay them any attention. Harry scoffs. He steps forward on shaky legs, pulling Niall into his arms and squeezing. “Are  _ you _ okay?”

“I’m fine.” He mumbles, returning the hug but careful to keep his hands away from Harry’s shirt. 

Harry pulls away. “I can’t believe you did that.”

“I’d do anything for you. You should know that.”

“Ditto.” They share a wobbly smile. Harry doesn’t know why he’s been so worried about losing Niall to Ava. He’s tried not to show it, but the thoughts have been there. Seeing Niall’s reaction to Noah, however . . . Harry can’t imagine a day where he doesn’t have Niall Horan in his life. He doesn’t have to.

Niall steps away, staring down at Noah with distaste. “Alright. Time to take out the trash.”

He doesn’t know how Niall does it, but he carries Noah out of the flat without much struggle and dumps him outside, locking the door behind him. 

In that time, Harry takes hold of Louis’ hand and squeezes, says, “Thank you,” leaning into Louis and catching his lips by surprise. Everything in Harry’s body is singing. His heart can’t find a stable rhythm. Not only had Louis stood up for Harry and defended him — but he had made sure Harry was alright. Had squeezed his leg and rubbed his neck and pressed their bodies together to give Harry an anchor to keep hold on. 

Niall re-enters the room while they’re kissing and makes a sound of playful disgust. “I’m going to wash my hands.”

Louis giggles against Harry’s lips. “Let me help you.”

He slips out of Harry’s arms and follows Niall towards the bathroom, the two of them bantering easily. Harry watches them disappear down the hallway and sighs. The moment of euphoria begins to pass, and soon a familiar dark cloud hangs overhead. 

Seeing Noah again and reckoning with the effects of his past isn’t something he can brush past. Harry has spent the better part of four years in various states of disrepair, torturing himself to make Noah happy, and then torturing himself again when it became clear he never could. Seeing him in person . . . brings it all back. Every sacrifice he made disguised as compromise; each one of Noah’s disapproving frowns or snide remarks. 

Noah hasn’t changed much during their time apart, but neither has Harry. He had sat there and allowed Noah to treat him the way he used to without putting up a fight or standing up for himself. He had relied on Louis and Niall to fight the battle for him while he stood there, wide-eyed and mute and stuck inside the bruised skin he thought he’d shed long ago.

There are so many things he could have said, should have said, but didn’t. Or couldn’t. For two years, Harry has wondered how he would react if confronted with Noah again. And now he knows. As soon as Noah walked into the flat, Harry knew that no words can fix what’s been broken between them; no form of conversation can liberate him from the past. Nothing he says to Noah will change anything, or make Noah a better person. 

Maybe he’ll never get the kind of closure people say he ought to. Maybe this is as good as it’s ever going to get. And maybe that’s enough for him. Harry takes a deep breath. What matters now is that Noah is gone, and Harry will likely never have to see him again. 

Good riddance.

+++

It’s happening again.

Harry wakes up in a cold sweat. The first thing he thinks is that  _ this is the end _ . He’s dying. Then Louis’ arm tightens around him and he mumbles in his sleep. The room is too hot, too cold. Harry can’t get enough air in his lungs, clutching at his chest and kicking off the covers. 

“Harry?” Louis rasps. Harry tries to escape his hold and Louis won’t let go. He spreads his hand across Harry’s stomach. “Harry, what’s wrong?”

“Air.” He coughs, trying to sit up. 

Louis rises with him, his hand still placed firmly on Harry’s stomach. “What do you mean?”

He can’t find the air to breathe, let alone speak. His chest is caving in on itself and his lungs are imploding and Harry is scrambling in the darkness. “Niall.”

He needs Niall. Because Niall is the only one who knows how to deal with him at times like this. Louis will learn (he didn’t want Louis to  _ have _ to learn; he hoped that this would never happen in front of him, or ever again). But for now, Niall is the one he needs.

Wordlessly, Louis slips out of bed and out the bedroom door while Harry clutches at the duvet. If he tries to focus, the vertigo gets worse and the tickle in his throat makes him gag. His mind is lost inside itself, trying to remember the primal instinct to breathe, but his body is fighting against him.

Niall enters the room with a tall glass of cold water and rushes into the bathroom, flicking on the lights. He sets the glass on the counter and starts running a hot bath. Louis stands in the doorway, wringing his hands and looking lost. 

“Bring him over.” Niall orders. And Louis does as he’s told.

As it so often happens when Harry’s panic attacks come, he finds himself being half-carried into the bathroom. He chokes on air and Niall grips the back of his head and guides it down towards the toilet bowl, where Harry retches until his throat is raw. He can sense when Niall’s hand leaves and Louis’ gentle fingers replace his, carding through Harry’s hair. 

The scent of spearmint encases the steam-filled room and Harry retches one more time before his breath begins to return. Louis and Niall whisper quietly behind him, and he can’t make out the words, but he imagines that Niall is explaining everything to Louis. About how this isn’t the first time. About how this has been happening more frequently. Ever since Noah came back into the picture.

Harry shouldn’t be surprised that this is happening right now. (Noah showing up had affected him more than he’d let on.) Mostly, he’s embarrassed. He doesn’t want Louis to see him like this.

The bathroom door clicks shut and Harry glances up with heavy eyes, only to see Louis crouched down beside him, hand rubbing down his back. “You okay, love?”

Harry can’t speak. He nods.

“I’m going to need you to strip down so you can get in the bath. Do you need help?”

He begins to shake his head, but even that movement leaves his brain rattling and reeling. Harry pauses with his eyes shut tight. Nods.

“Okay,” Louis says. He helps Harry stand up and removes his shirt and sweats, opting to leave his briefs on, his fingers careful not to brush Harry’s skin too often. He props Harry’s weight against his side and leads him gently (so, so gently) into the bathtub. Harry nuzzles into him. 

Louis reaches towards the counter and grabs the glass of water. Hands it to Harry. “Cheers.”

Despite the pain in his throat, Harry laughs. It’s short and quick and painful, but Louis’ eyes brighten and Harry can’t stand for him to be so far away. He finishes the water and grips Louis’ wrist. “Come here.”

“I’m right here.” Louis’ lips quirk.

“No,” Harry splashes the water weakly. “In here.”

Louis bites his lip. “I think you should bathe.”

“Help me.”

He’s too tired. So damn tired. And he needs Louis as close as possible right now. The urge to press every inch of their bodies together — to feel a stable presence against him — is strong. 

Louis eyes him doubtfully.

“Please.”

There’s no denying the request, and Harry can see it on his face. The air is clouded with steam and Louis is a ghost as he sheds his layers and climbs into the tub with nothing left on but his pants. The two of them sit with their knees pressed together, until Harry’s fingers grab at the loofah hanging around the nozzle. He hands it to Louis in question and Louis grabs it. 

He starts with Harry’s legs and feet, scrubbing him with a eucalyptus-scented body wash and moving mechanically, ensuring to get every inch of exposed skin. Harry rests his head against the wall and closes his eyes, the soft motions soothing his weary mind into an in-between state of wakefulness and sleep.

Louis taps his shoulder and Harry cracks open an eyelid. “Back.”

Harry leans forward so that his face is smushed against Louis’ shoulder. His mind goes pleasantly blank as he focuses on Louis’ gentle motions. He whispers, “I’m glad you’re here,” into the warm skin. 

But Louis hears him anyway. He pauses in the midst of scrubbing Harry’s back. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He presses a kiss to one of Louis’ moles. “Always.”

The tension releases from Louis’ spine and he sighs, pulling Harry closer. They finish in the bath and Louis wraps Harry in his yellow fluffy robe while Louis wraps a blue towel around his waist and they walk hand-in-hand into the dark bedroom. Louis finds sweats and t-shirts for both of them to wear, tucks Harry’s wet curls behind his ear and then tucks him into bed, wrapping the duvet tightly around his waist and then throwing a possessive arm around him. A second layer of protection and comfort.

Harry gets that sensation again: of being home. He threads his fingers with Louis’ and breathes. If this is home, and what home is meant to feel like . . . Harry thinks he could get used to this.

+++

[ Morning by Marc E. Bassy ](https://youtu.be/uHvLTuvKTu8)

The bed is cold when Harry wakes up that morning. 

He shouldn’t be surprised. The panic attack had scared Louis away, and now Harry is alone. Cold and alone. Isn't that the story of his life? Louis didn’t really mean what he said, when he’d told Anne that he loved Harry. He had only thought he did. Now that he had seen the  _ real _ Harry — seen all of the baggage that came alone with loving him — he had fled.

Harry wraps the duvet around his shoulders and curls into a ball, pushing back the tears. He won’t cry. There’s no point in crying. He should have seen this coming. But his tear ducts have other ideas. His bedroom door opens and Harry flinches, bringing the duvet up and hiding his face. 

There’s a rattle of dishes being carried towards him and being set on his bedside table. A weight sits down carefully on the bed. Harry sniffles. It’s probably Niall, here to apologize to Harry and offer his comfort and— 

“Darling.” 

Harry pokes his head out. Louis is looking down at him with a soft smile. He wipes away his tears and rises to his elbows. “You’re here.”

Fingers are running through his hair and Harry sighs. “Of course I am.”

“I thought you’d left."

Louis’ face falls. “Why would I leave?”

He shrugs. “I embarrassed myself.”

“Panic attacks aren’t embarrassing, love.” Louis brushes the pad of his thumb along Harry’s cheek. “And I would never leave you for embarrassing yourself. I told you, it’s part of your charm.”

Harry leans into the touch, his breath coming easier. “I’m sorry, I—” 

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

The smell of food hits him then and Harry’s stomach growls. Louis laughs, reaching towards the tray of food and setting it between them. There’s a stack of (slightly burnt) pancakes, a bowl of assorted fruit, a glass of orange juice, and a side of soy bacon. A bundle of pink carnations is held upright by a tiny pink vase.

“You made all this?” He stares at the spread with wide eyes.

Louis gnaws at his lip and nods. “Sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up. I didn’t think about it. I wanted to make you breakfast.”

Tears collect in his eyelashes. “Thank you.”

For Louis, it’s probably just breakfast. It’s not a grand gesture or anything inherently romantic. But for Harry . . . he’s never had anyone make him breakfast before. He used to be the one to bring breakfast in bed, to put effort into the little things and show he cared. Nobody else had ever returned the sentiment.

“You made me breakfast the other day, yeah? My cooking isn’t nearly as good as yours, but I hope you like it.” Louis tugs at one of his curls and smiles softly. Harry leans over the tray and kisses him desperately. They sink into the kiss for a moment before Louis pulls away, his hand holding the glass of orange juice steady. “You should eat. And if you hate it, we can go to the coffee shop.”

“I know I’ll love it,” Harry says. The look Louis gives him in return is enough to make him lose the feeling in his toes.

Breakfast is delicious, despite the pancakes being black around the edges. Harry eats it all. Louis picks at the soy bacon and raises his eyebrows in surprise, claiming that it’s ‘not bad’ and trying to steal another, whining when Harry swats his hand away. And Harry can’t believe he’d ever thought that Louis would leave him, not when he’s here and solid and looking at Harry like he’s the only person in the world. 

What was it that Liam told him two months ago? The feeling he’d gotten when he’d done Harry’s painting. He said he had felt warm, happy, and content. 

Warm. Happy. Content. 

That’s it. That’s what this moment is. That’s what every moment with Louis is.

They leave the bedroom eventually and as soon as they walk into the sitting room, Harry’s mouth drops open. An array of pink and red and purple and white carnations jump out at him. The air carries the soft undertones of flower petals and cloves. There isn’t a single surface left uncovered. Harry can’t believe his eyes.

“What’s all this?”

Niall’s head pokes out from the couch, barely visible from behind a bundle of white and purple carnations. “Your bloody boyfriend decided to take over the apartment, that’s what.”

“Oi! You helped!” Louis gasps.

“I was coerced into it!”

“You’re the one who mentioned Harry’s love of carnations.”

Niall snorts. “I didn’t mean  _ this _ much.”

Louis turns to Harry with a tiny frown. “Is it too much?”

And Harry can hardly find the words to respond.  _ Is it too much? _ No. Not at all. Too much is Harry’s feelings for Louis. Which are all-encompassing at this point. Too much is the way he’s losing his mind with adoration. But his throat is stuck, so he settles for a firm kiss. Hoping it translates.

He suddenly remembers another thought he’d had a while back, and pulls away. “What do you say about helping me bake today?”

Louis blinks. “I’m not much of a baker.”

“I’ll teach you.”

Niall’s head pops up over the flowers again. “Ooh! Make some blondies. I love your blondies.”

Harry shakes his head. “Cupcakes.”

Turns out Louis was right. He’s really not a baker. When Harry asks him to use the mixer to mix the batter, he turns it up all the way, splattering the ingredients all over the cupboards and counter. When Harry asks him to help fill the cupcake tin, he overflows a few of the wrappers so that they’re drowning in batter. But Harry finds it enchanting. He giggles and smears some of the extra batter over Louis’ noise while Louis squawks in protest, dipping his finger into the frosting container and poking dollops of it into Harry’s dimples.

Niall walks in sometime after, only to find Harry pressing Louis against the countertop, both of their faces covered with batter and frosting. “You know you’re supposed to actually bake the cupcakes, right?”

They break away and fall into breathless laughter. Niall nicks the bowl of remaining batter and licks the bowl clean. Harry smiles so wide and laughs so hard that his cheeks and throat are sore. In the best way possible.

+++

Liam’s shop is empty when they enter, meaning that he’s holed up in his apartment upstairs. Business has been dying out lately, and Harry has to admit he’s a bit worried for Liam’s livelihood. If he can’t find a way to gain more customers, the psychic shop may be at risk. And as reluctant as Harry had been at first, this is the place where it all began for him and Louis. Without Liam, he and Louis wouldn’t be together right now. Harry knows that much. And that’s why he stumbles up the steep stairs, carrying a plate stacked with carrot cake cupcakes. There’s no words for Harry’s gratitude towards Liam, so he shows it as best as he can through baked goods. Louis is right behind him, carrying his own (mysteriously low) plate.

He enters the flat without knocking — not thinking about it — but immediately wishes he could burn the image of Zayn lying horizontally on the mattress, bare ass naked, from his retinas. Liam sits on a stool with a canvas half-painted, the outline and shading of Zayn’s form nearly complete. The detail is exquisite, right down to the tiniest tattoos. 

Harry swallows and looks away. Louis, on the other hand, has no qualms about barging in on their two friends. “Oi! Put some clothes on. We brought treats.”

Liam flails in the stool at Louis’ voice, barely catching his balance before he turns to gape at them with flaming cheeks. “There’s such a thing as knocking!”

“Don’t you have practice later?” The bed springs creak as Zayn sits up, eyeing Louis with annoyance and reaching for his discarded pants.

“Nah. Called in sick.” Louis fakes a cough. “I’m under the weather, as you can see.”

A small flutter erupts in Harry’s stomach. He hadn’t known that Louis had practice today. And the fact that Louis had called in sick to spend the day with him is both pleasing and worrisome. He doesn’t want to impact Louis’ career, or make Louis feel like he needs to be taken care of. 

“Louis—” He starts, but Louis cuts him off with a chaste kiss. 

“It’s one practice, darling. Nothing to worry about.”

Louis’ dismissal causes the tension to grow, and Liam must be able to feel it, because he subtly tries to diffuse it by pointing to the plate of cupcakes. “Those for me?”

“For  _ us _ .” Zayn corrects. 

Harry nods, forcing his eyes forward as Zayn makes himself decent. “Just thought I’d show my appreciation.”

Liam’s brows draw together. “For what?”

“Just . . . because.” He can’t say the real reason; Louis doesn’t know. At least, not yet. He’s been meaning to tell Louis everything — he really has — but the moment has never felt right. And Harry’s got the sinking feeling that the conversation might not go over so well.

“Well, I’ll never say no to cupcakes.” 

The room is as cramped as ever, but the four of them make it work. Liam joins Zayn on the bed and Harry leans in-between Louis thighs when he grabs a stool at the counter. Louis wraps his arms tightly around Harry’s stomach and keeps him in place. Harry grabs at a cupcake and has a faint memory of the last time he and Louis ate cake together. He smiles deviously and smears the cream cheese frosting along his lips, turning slightly so that Louis can see his profile.

“Do I have something on my face?” He asks, batting his lashes.

From the mattress, Zayn snorts. “Are we going to be forced to listen to you two be disgusting every time you eat desserts together?”

“You don’t have to listen. Close your ears, Malik.” Louis retorts, leaning towards Harry’s lips and licking at his bottom lip. Zayn’s only response is to sigh in defeat. 

“Anyway,” Liam’s nose is covered with frosting, but nobody says a word. Zayn stares at him with fond amusement. “Where’s Niall?”

“With Ava.” Harry and Louis respond at the same time.

“You know, I haven’t met her yet.”

Harry shakes his head and frowns. “I’ve only met her once. And another time in passing, but neither of those times count in my mind. He keeps saying he wants us to get all together, but it hasn’t happened yet. I think Niall’s afraid I won’t approve.”

Behind him, Louis huffs. “Well, you are difficult to read sometimes.”

“You read me just fine.” He elbows Louis’ rib cage gently. “So does Niall.”

“And me.” Liam chirps, smiling. 

Harry rolls his eyes. “Yes, you — quite literally — have read me, Liam.”

He can hear the frown in Louis’ voice when he speaks. “You’ve gotten a reading?”

The tension returns and Harry finds himself struggling to breathe. Now is not the time to reveal to Louis all the ways in which Liam brought them together. The timing doesn’t feel right. And Harry would really like to have this conversation in private. 

Liam seems to share the same thought, because he winces at the pair of them. “I’ve technically read all of you. Psychic and all that.”

“Oh, okay.” The tension eases.

A phone buzzing interrupts any further questions, and Harry is thankful for it, until he sees the look on Liam’s face. The vibrations echo in the quiet room as Liam’s phone blinks urgently up at them, begging to be answered. Harry watches his face carefully, noticing the pale sheen it’s taken on in the past minute. It’s like looking into a mirror.

“Who’s calling you?” Zayn asks, but the tone in his voice suggests he knows.

Liam clutches at his phone but doesn’t look at the screen. “George, again.”

Harry cocks his head. The name is vaguely familiar. He tries to recall how he knows the name, and then the memory comes to him: Christmas Eve. 

“Who’s George?” Louis rests his chin on Harry’s shoulder.

Liam shakes his head, his eyes too haunted to respond. Zayn takes hold of his other hand. “George is Liam’s dad.”

“Step-dad,” Liam says sharply.

Zayn winces. “He’s been trying to reconnect with Liam.”

“Reconnect?” Louis pushes. And Harry wants to shush him, because Liam clearly doesn’t seem to be capable of explaining at the moment, but his own curiosity makes him bite his tongue.

“He . . . cut Liam off. When he decided to pursue his psychic business. And when—” 

Liam stands up, his hand ripping free of Zayn’s. “He didn’t want a gay son. Or a son who dabbles in ‘the devil’s work.’ To him both things are pretty much sacrilege.” 

“Honey, he’s trying now,” Zayn says. But he winces.

Surprisingly, Louis chimes in. His voice is dark. “Doesn’t mean he deserves a second chance.”

“He doesn’t.” Liam agrees.

Zayn looks at Harry helplessly, a silent plea in his eyes. He can understand why Zayn might think it’s a good thing for Liam’s father to be reaching out and trying to make amends, but Harry is inherently distrustful of father figures. Maybe because he didn’t have one for most of his life. Even when Gary had come around and eventually become an established part of the family, Harry had only just warmed up to him. And then he’d died.

He wonders how he would react if his own estranged father came banging back into his life. If he woke up one day to a voicemail or a text message or a stranger standing at his doorstep, claiming to be his father. The thoughts bring no comfort or joy to Harry, like he supposes they ought to. There’s nothing but resentment.

“Fuck him,” Harry says, more heated than he intended. Louis’ arms tighten around his stomach and Zayn’s eyes widen almost comically. He doesn’t pay attention, instead making eye contact with Liam. “He doesn’t deserve to know you. Fuck him.”

+++

Therapy is getting harder.

Like today, for example. Brenda starts to push him. Poking and prodding insistently until Harry breaks, standing up and shouting and crying until the words run out and his eyes go dry. She believes that he’s holding back. She says she can’t help him if he’s going to keep her at arm’s length. And Harry doesn’t know what she wants from him. He’s given so much to these sessions. He’s made himself vulnerable. He’s talked about Noah and Gary and his past relationships and worked his way up to Louis. 

But she isn’t satisfied.

“Harry, do you remember our first session?”

He vaguely remembers. But shakes his head, wiping away his tears.

“You told me you wanted to stop living in the past. We’ve talked about it, and we’ve touched on the present, but every time I bring up the future, you close up. Can you tell me why that is?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s okay. I want you to try. I think if you dig deep, you could tell me a bit more.”

“I’m digging as deep as I can.”

Brenda stares at him with an infuriating neutral expression. “What scares you about the future?”

“Nothing! Everything! I don’t know.”

“You told me before that you didn’t think you could find love again or be loved in return. Do you continue to have those thoughts?”

Harry rakes a hand through his hair. “It’s complicated.”

“Try to explain.”

No, Harry doesn’t still have those thoughts. But also, yes. They are buried deep down, ingrained at the core of his heart. The fear is there, lurking. He’s beginning to slowly accept Louis’ love, and accept the idea of loving him back — but it doesn’t magically erase all of his doubts. His anxiety that one day he’ll wake up and Louis will decide he doesn’t want him anymore. And then,  _ poof _ . Harry will be alone again.

He tries his best to explain, but words don’t do it justice. The feeling is impossible to describe.

Brenda nods. “We’ve touched on your abandonment issues. I’d like to explore those more. Where do you think they stem from?”

His first thought is Noah, but he knows that isn’t right. It wasn’t Gary’s death, either. Or any of his previous relationships. Harry has never understood it, but the fear has been within him his entire life. Festering and growing and expanding until it became a sickness he couldn’t cure.

He takes a breath. “I don’t know. Maybe my dad.”

Brenda jots something down in her notes. “Tell me more about him.”

“There isn’t much to tell. I never knew him.”

“What happened to him?”

He doesn’t want to talk about his dad. Now that he knows the full story, the mere thought of him makes Harry angry. “I grew up thinking that he’d left us or died. Mum never liked to talk about him.”

“And now?”

God. She needs to stop with the questions. Harry’s nerves are on fire and the walls are closing in on him. He spits out, “He’s a prick,” and refuses to go any deeper than that. As soon as the clock hits the hour, Harry is standing up and thanking her with a stiff nod and heading out the door. 

He’s not expecting it when Louis meets him out front, leaning against his BMW and his hands shoved into the pocket of his black hoodie. The wind sweeps his hair to the side and pinkens his cheeks. He looks gorgeous. But for the first time in a while (or maybe ever), Harry is displeased to see him. All he wants is to be left alone. To go home and ignore the fact that today ever happened. Mostly, he doesn’t want to take out his rotten mood on Louis.

Louis spots him and smiles, pushing off the car and walking towards Harry. Harry stops mid-walk and schools his features as he watches Louis approach.

“Hey.” His smile is blinding. “How was therapy?”

“What are you doing here?"

It comes out harsher than he intended and Louis is taken aback. “Picking you up, duh.”

Harry begins to walk again, away from the car. “I didn’t ask you to.”

And of course, Louis hurries to catch up to him. “I wanted to.”

“You should go home.”

“No.” Louis hops so he’s in Harry’s way. Harry tries to move around him, but Louis is too fast. “You can’t get rid of me that easily, Harry. What happened?”

A frustrated noise forms in the back of his throat. “Why can’t you leave me be?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Then fuck you.”

“Maybe someday.” Louis jokes, but Harry can’t find the humor in it.

Instead, he snaps, “For once, I want you to lose your cool. Why do you have to be so calm all the time?”

Louis steps back with a deep frown. “You want to fight?”

“Yes! No! I only meant — why are you here?”

“I wanted to see my boyfriend and support him.” 

“I don’t need you to coddle me.”

“Nobody’s coddling you, Harry.” Louis reaches out.

Harry steps back. “Well, that’s what it feels like.”

A flicker of hurt flashes across his face. “Okay. I’m sorry. Just get in the car and I’ll drop you off.”

“And if I don’t?” He doesn’t know why he’s acting like this. But Brenda’s pushing, coupled with Louis acting like the-perfect-fucking-boyfriend has pulled Harry’s mind apart in all sorts of ways. He’s in self-destruct mode.

He watches Louis try to collect himself, swallowing his own temper down. Harry wants to see him explode. “Please, Harry. Stop throwing a temper tantrum and let me drive you home.”

“No.”

“Harry—” 

“Louis. I can’t.” His anger is fading and his voice breaks at the end. Everything is so hard. Harry wants it to be easier. Why can’t it be easy?

“Can’t what.” Louis stares at Harry, his eyes hard. And Harry’s tongue goes heavy. Louis sighs. “I don’t know what’s wrong. I don’t know what happened in therapy, but if you want me to go, I’ll go. I’ll give you some space.”

The last thing Harry wants is space. He wants to superglue himself to Louis so he can never leave. So Harry never has to be alone again. What a fucking unhealthy thought. “Don’t go.”

Louis sucks on his teeth. “You told me to. So which is it, Harry? Do you want me to stay or leave?”

He doesn’t know if Louis means today, or forever. His brain is stuck on the singular thought of:  _ don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me _ . He knows, rationally, that Louis is talking about today. But the fear nags at him, because every time he speaks, he succeeds in pushing Louis further away. 

“I . . . I need some alone time. Tonight. But don't leave.”

Don’t  _ ever _ leave me, is what he means. Louis nods and brings his hands cautiously to Harry’s wrists. Pressing against his pulse. “Okay. I’ll hang out with Liam for a bit. Can I drive you home?”

Harry nods. He can’t find the energy to fight anymore; he’s suddenly insurmountably tired. His thoughts are unraveling, disconnected from his body as he sits in the passenger seat and Louis drives him home. He can feel Louis’ hand on his and the soft squeeze of his fingers and the whispered  _ I’ll be back I promise _ when he drops Harry off, but beyond the buzzing in his ears and the rush of blood beneath his skin, Harry can’t comprehend much else.

It’s one of those days, Harry thinks. One of those days where life drags him down and the weight of his baggage presses his face against the earth and makes it difficult to breathe. He didn’t mean to take it out on Louis, or pull him down into the turmoil. Yet he had. 

His hands are trembling and Harry can’t shake the restlessness and anxiety that’s stolen his body. He huffs and goes into Niall’s room, rummaging through the bedside drawer before he finds a bowl and a tiny bag of hash. He’s silently thankful for the fact that Niall doesn’t smoke often and snatches both items, locking himself in his bathroom while the tub fills. 

The burning, earthy smell of hash settles his nerves. He places the pipe between his lips and inhales deeply. This is okay. Smoking is okay. At least he can handle his smoke better than his liquor. Harry exhales slowly, trying to puff rings in the air like he’d seen Zayn do once. Fails. The water burns his skin when Harry enters the tub, but he ignores it and submerges completely before resurfacing, his back pressing against the tile wall. Steam and smoke curl throughout the room, creating a hotbox effect. Encasing him. The weight that had been pressing against Harry’s sternum lifts slightly and his breath starts to come a bit easier. 

Before today’s session, Harry hadn’t realized that he’d been carrying a silent chip on his shoulder. He had never particularly cared about the fact that his father wasn’t around — or, that’s what he’d told himself. But it all made sense, didn’t it? The first man who had ever abandoned him. The first man who had ever let him down, wronged him. (Despite the new knowledge that his mum had been the one to leave, doesn’t erase the fact that Harry had grown up believing something completely different.) Every part of Harry that revolted against commitment, that held various degrees of mistrust, could be traced back to that fateful moment. 

And, yeah, all of the other moments too. He is in no way downplaying the other events in his life that have reinforced his innate reluctance to share himself completely. Before Noah, Harry had never found the strength or courage to break down those barriers; and after, those barriers had been reinforced ten times over. 

It’s a miracle Louis ever made it past them. Then again, Louis is a special case.

But Harry continues to push him away. Finds the smallest excuses to create turbulence between them. Continues to hold him at a distance, afraid to let him any closer. That’s not something that can simply disappear, or magically be fixed. And Louis has been so, so patient with him. Patient in ways that Harry knows he doesn’t deserve.

He’s tired. Tired of acting out. Tired of holding back. Just, tired. The hash makes it hard to keep his eyes open, but at the same time, his mind is sharper and clearer than it’s been in a while. Thoughts and feelings that he has been pushing down sneak to the forefront and refuse to dissipate. There are too many words he wants to say. But there is a stark difference between wanting to verbalize a thought or feeling and  _ actually _ verbalizing it. 

Harry sighs. He was hoping that the hash might provide him with some clarity. But alas. Instead, he cycles through the same words over and over until the meaning gets lost. Whispers them into the steam and smoke and wishes he could make them physical. Tangible. Life would be a whole lot easier that way.

A knock sounds at the door and Harry jumps. “Hello?”

“It’s me.” The door pushes open and Louis is standing there, tired and rumpled but appearing otherwise nebulous. 

Harry gazes at him with wide eyes.

Three whole seconds pass before Louis wrinkles his nose and releases a rough laugh. “Smoking without me?”

How much time has passed? The water is tepid — warm at best — against Harry’s skin, where it had been scalding only moments before. Twenty minutes could have passed, or two hours. Or more. Harry tends to lose track of the seconds when he smokes. Time is but a figment of the imagination.

He doesn’t realize he’s said that last thought out loud until Louis furrows his brows. “How much have you smoked?”

“Mmm. Wanted to clear my head.” Is Harry’s noncommittal response. 

“Did it do the job?"

His head is heavy, lolling on his shoulders as he turns towards Louis’ voice with lidded eyes. “Nah. Only made me think more.”

“Marijuana tends to do that sometimes.”

He shakes his head. “Hash.”

Louis whistles. “That’ll do it, too.”

The urge to close the distance between them is insistent, but Harry pushes it down. He was the one to start the argument earlier. He has no right to initiate anything right now. Louis closes the door behind him and stares at Harry with his arms crossed. 

“Are you ready to talk about it?”

Harry huffs in frustration. “I hardly know where to start.”

The sound of clothes dropping to the floor jerks his attention back to Louis, who now stands in nothing but his pants. He raises a brow in question and Harry swallows, pulling his knees up to make room for Louis in the tub. Tries not to think about how naked he is. The water has long gone cold, yet Louis steps in anyways, settling with his knees pressed against Harry’s.

“You can start with how your day was.”

He swallows again. “What about your day?”

“My day was fine. Practice was hellish. Coach is driving us all harder since championships are coming up and we’ve got a guaranteed spot in the playoffs. The drive here was nice and quiet, but long. My boyfriend was a bit cranky when I tried to pick him up, however. So I went to Liam’s. We had a nice chat.” Louis’ eyes are burning his skin, and despite the cold water, Harry goes hot all over.

“What did you chat about?” He honestly doesn’t know if he wants the answer. Liam wouldn’t tell Louis about their sessions, right? Client confidentiality and all that. He wouldn’t.

Louis sighs dramatically. “Boys, mostly. And how frustrating they can be.”

“I’m sorry.” 

“I’m sorry, too.”

Harry shakes his head. “What do you have to be sorry for?”

“I keep pushing. Even when you tell me to stop. I should know better by now, but—” 

“It’s good that you push me. I-I need someone to challenge me. It’s refreshing.” He means it. For two years, everyone he loves has been walking on eggshells around him. And Harry knows it’s because they care, but sometimes, showing you care also means confronting difficult and uncomfortable truths. Louis does exactly that.

Louis presses their knees closer together, his fingers clenching around his shins. “Still. You had a rough day at therapy. I should’ve waited for you to open up, not badger you.”

Harry’s smile is wry. “If you had waited, I likely would have ignored it. That’s what I do best.”

“And now?”

“Now . . .” He gnaws at his lip. “I have a lot of shit to unpack. I’m trying my best to share, but I need time.”

“Patience?” Louis asks, and Harry flinches. He sounds like a broken record, asking Louis to be patient for what feels like the hundredth time. But it’s the truth.

He shrugs. “It is a virtue, after all.”

Louis’ lips quirk. “Protecting my virtue, then?”

“Shut up.” 

“Make me.” His grin is full blown now. It’s such a childish comment, a rudimentary tactic. But the heat pools in Harry’s gut regardless, and he’s yet again reminded how naked he is.

He lifts his hands out of the water and settles them atop Louis’ kneecaps, rubbing lazy circles along the skin. It’s hardly the most intimate spot Harry could touch. He hears the hitch in Louis’ breath anyways. “Okay.”

He realizes, after speaking, how many different ways  _ okay _ could be interpreted. So he leans forward, pushing the front of his body against Louis’ legs and kissing him deep. All of his previous thoughts stall, leaving him with nothing to focus on but the warmth of Louis’ lips and the way their bodies fit together. 

Louis pulls away, breath grazing the outer shell of Harry’s ear and making him shiver. “I’ll wait forever. You’re worth it.”

And for once, Harry doesn’t lock up. He’s naked and vulnerable and keenly aware of how hard he is, how his warm skin is rubbing against Louis’ bare legs, how good it feels. And Louis is looking at him like he would do anything for Harry, bend over backwards if he asked him too, and it’s both excruciating and invigorating. This thing between them is so fragile and new, with so many barriers in place begging to be beaten down. But right here and right now, Harry  _ wants _ . For the first time in a long time, he allows himself to want.

He palms Louis, satisfied to find him already hard, and Louis gasps against his mouth. “Harry—”

“I want.” 

The word carries enormous weight and when it’s spoken the tension in Harry’s shoulders uncoils and melts away. Louis stares at him in disbelief for a moment and then they’re kissing, harder this time, more purposeful. Harry doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of kissing Louis, of tasting the faint traces of cigarette smoke and mint gum, of exploring with his tongue and mentally mapping the parts of Louis that pull softer sighs and which ones leave him gasping and arching his back. If he could undo Louis with a kiss, he would.

But then Louis is pushing him away. “You’re high.”

“So?” He leans forward again. Louis doesn’t budge.

“You’re high and you’re upset. As much as I want to, tonight’s not the night, love.”

Harry goes cold all over. “I can make decisions.”

“I know you can. But I told you, you have nothing to prove.”

“I’m not trying to prove anything, Louis. Can’t I just want?”

Louis pushes a wet curl away from his forehead. “You can want. I’d feel better if we were both sober before we go further though, okay?”

He doesn’t mean for it to happen, but the tears come gushing out all at once. And suddenly the moment seems quite pathetic. He’s naked and vulnerable and no longer hard but dejected. Louis tries to wrap his arms around Harry, but Harry scrabbles away from him and presses his cheek against the wall, revelling in the cool texture. “You should go.”

The water splashes as Louis moves closer to Harry, instead of further away. “Harry, you know that’s not going to happen.”

“Why not?” He cuts a hard glare towards Louis, whose face is too close. Too full of concern.

“Because I love—” Louis cuts himself off, cheeks going red. “I mean, I care about you. I want to make sure you’re alright. And you’re clearly not.”

A moment of stunned silence follows as Harry gapes at Louis, his eyes wet and blinking rapidly. “You what?”

Louis shakes his head. “Nothing. Forget I said it. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

Harry’s throat bobs. “Okay.”

“How about we get you changed, okay?” Louis can’t look at him. Meanwhile, Harry’s eyes can’t look anywhere else. 

He had heard Louis say he loved him before, in the kitchen with Harry’s mum, but to hear those words directed towards him catches him off guard. He doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything at all. He follows Louis out of the bathtub and sits awkwardly on the edge of the bed with a towel around his waist while Louis finds them both some clothes. 

There’s a new, nervous twitch to Louis’ energy. Almost embarrassed. And Harry doesn’t know how to comfort him right now; his hands hang limp at his sides, useless. He doesn’t want to dwell too much on how Louis feels, or whether or not Harry can return those feelings right now. He doesn’t know. All he knows is that the past few days have been exhausting, being forced to relive his trauma over and over again. Taking it out on Louis hasn’t helped, either.

But Louis is still here. By some miracle.

He had been there when Noah showed up, had stayed even after Harry’s panic attack. He hadn’t fled. He had come back after their fight. He had  _ promised _ to come back, and he did. He had told Harry he would wait forever and had meant it. He had stopped Harry’s advances because he loves Harry and wants to protect him and keep him safe.

And that’s what makes all the difference.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Louis figure things out.

The last time Harry met a boyfriend’s parents, it had included an awkward, formal dinner at a posh house in Timperley where Harry had worn an uncomfortable tie and starchy pants that made his legs itch. Noah’s parents had stared him down from the end of the table (and it was a long ass table) and grilled him about his aspirations in life, looking disappointed when he said that he was a writer. Noah had sat to the side, picking at his shepherd's pie with no real interest. Leaving Harry to the wolves.

This time is not like that. Harry arrives at Louis' childhood home wearing a pair of straight legged black trousers and a pink and white polka dot button up. Louis had told him not to dress up, so he instead went for a chic, relaxed look.  _ My family is casual, _ Louis had said. No need for fancy attire. But. Harry wanted to make an impression. 

Louis opens the door with a soft smile, and once he sees Harry, he drinks in his appearance with bright eyes. Harry blushes. Ever since Louis’ almost-confession the other night, there’s been an air of awkwardness between them, but also an increased sense of appreciation. Not simply for the physicality of one another, but in the slow way Harry has begun to find his footing around Louis. And vice versa. 

“You look . . . nice.” Louis manages. 

Harry flashes his dimples. “Nice?” 

The door widens as Louis leans against the door frame, and Harry gets a glimpse into the chaos brewing inside. “Fine. You look hot. Happy?”

“I’m not  _ un _ happy.” He takes a moment to drag his gaze up and down Louis’ body, admiring the way his loose fitting trousers somehow still show off the shape of his backside and the patterned polo cinches his waist.

Louis snorts. “Wanker. Come on.”

The moment he walks into the narrow hallway, there’s a flash of movement and a tiny body is barreling towards him and arms are wrapping around his legs. A young boy, around six years old maybe, looks up at Harry with a toothy grin.

“Ernie,” Louis says. “Manners, please.”

The boy, Ernie, steps back and shoots his hand out towards Harry. “Pleased to meet you.”

Harry takes the small palm in his own, crouching to eye-level. “The pleasure’s all mine, Ernie.”

With a triumphant yell, Ernie barrels back down the hallway and into what is presumably the sitting room, where a cacophony of voices can be heard. The noise is somewhat disorienting, but Harry welcomes it; it reminds him wholly of Louis. He wouldn’t have expected anything else.

He turns and catches Louis’ eyes on him, gentle but brimming with something he can’t quite decipher. The look is enough to bring the blood rushing to Harry’s cheeks and he clears his throat. “Shall we?”

Louis rubs his hands together nervously and nods, leading the way towards the sounds. They enter into a brightly lit room with light blue walls and mismatched, worn-in furniture scattered throughout. On a couch with an old floral design sits two young women — one platinum blonde and the other brunette — their knees knocking together as they lean into one another and laugh. Across from them, sitting on a blue velvet armchair, is a younger girl with similar bone structure who is currently braiding the hair of her identical twin. The little boy, Ernie, has crawled into the lap of a middle-aged man sitting on a cream-colored loveseat. Another small girl, about the same age as Ernie, is nestled on the cushion beside the man.

When Harry and Louis enter the room, all six pairs of eyes turn towards Harry. 

There’s a beat of silence before one of the girls — the blonde one — whistles. “Where did you find him, then? Does he have a straight brother? Or a cousin, maybe?”

Beside her, the brunette slaps her arm. “Lots, behave yourself.”

“What? I can’t call him attractive?” 

One of the twin girls perks up, her eyes steady as she considers Harry. “So you’re Harry.”

He does a little wave. “I’m Harry.” 

Her twin smiles. “Lou won’t shut up about you.”

“All good things, I hope.”

Louis rolls his eyes and wraps his fingers around Harry’s bicep, turning to address his family with a sigh. “You lot realize you haven’t introduced yourselves.”

The blonde one stands up and walks towards Harry with an air of confidence. “I’m Lottie.”

He grabs her hand and murmurs, “Nice to meet you.”

Before he can grasp what’s happening, there are four other siblings rushing for him, saying their names in unison and trying to shake his hand. Harry blinks in surprise, bewildered. Louis is laughing beside him, his hand covering his mouth and a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. 

The twins’ names are Daisy and Phoebe, though how Harry is meant to tell them apart, he doesn’t know. The older brunette beside Lottie is Fizzy. And Ernest grabs at his leg again, tugging at his pant leg and giggling. The little girl takes hold of his other pant leg and yells that her name is Doris. He tries to put names to faces, but their constant movement makes it difficult. 

The older man remains where he is on the loveseat, taking in the scene with a mixture of humor and exasperation. Louis squeezes Harry’s arm and directs them towards the other end of the room.

“Mark, this is Harry.” 

The older man nods at Harry with a genial smile. “Welcome to the family. You’re pretty much a celebrity around here.”

Harry fidgets as Louis blushes beside him. “I am?”

“Of course. We’ve all been dying to meet you.” His smile grows. Doris returns to her spot on the couch and climbs onto Mark’s lap. He wraps a familial arm around her shoulder. 

The entire night is like that: familial. The Tomlinson siblings nag and rib one another, all in good fun and with wide smiles on their faces. At the dining table, where boxes of pizza are spread out and hands are reaching everywhere, the conversation is hearty and loud. Lottie makes fun of Louis falling on the pitch during his last game, and Louis shoots back with a retort about a broken heel during Fashion Week; Fizzy brokers a peace by mentioning the time that both Louis and Lottie were so drunk during a family dinner that they ended up singing the entirety of the Mamma Mia movie and coming up with intricate choreography to each song. The older twins, Phoebe and Daisy, throw pieces of crust at Louis’ head while he sits there and shakes his head, because soon enough, the younger twins are screeching and throwing their crusts in various directions, aiming for everyone’s heads and giggling when contact is made. 

Harry is enamoured by it all. The chaos, the laughter, the yelling over one another. He never got to experience having a large family — not that he would change his childhood for anything — but to be here and have that small taste, and to know that this is how Louis grew up, in a warm, inviting place surrounded by love . . . is nice.

Mark pulls him aside after dinner, while the rest of the family argues over which movie to pick, and Harry can feel Louis’ eyes on the back of his head, watching as the two of them step out into the winter night. He knows before Mark says a word what the conversation will be about, and Harry braces himself by leaning against the side of the house, hands shoved into his coat pockets.

He expected Mark to give him the customary parental spiel — his mum had likely done it to Louis when he’d come by. But what he didn’t expect was the cutting gaze Mark sends his way. “I hope you know how much Louis cares about you.”

Harry’s throat bobs. “I’m starting to.”

There are squeals of joy coming from inside, and Harry is curious to see what’s happening. He imagines Louis running after Doris and Ernie and tickling them into laughter, or pretending to be a monster just to rile them up. He can’t help but smile at the thought. 

Mark is silent for a moment. “I won’t pretend to know why it’s taken this long for the pair of you to get together. He’s been gone for you for months now. He didn’t show it, but I know he was sad for a lot of that time.”

“It’s, uh, my fault. I kind of strung him along for a bit without meaning to. I feel rather awful about it.” 

“And now?” Even through the heavy darkness, Mark’s eyes are penetrating.

Harry bites his lip and shrugs. “Now I’m trying to be as good to him as he’s been to me.”

Mark nods. “He would murder me if he knew I was telling you this, but he needs someone to take care of him. Louis has been taking care of everyone he knows for pretty much his entire life. He doesn’t like to admit that he needs help sometimes.”

_ Another thing in common _ , Harry thinks. But he says, “He seems pretty well put together.”

But that’s not quite true. Harry was there when Louis broke down after meeting with the teens; he was there that night when Louis came into the spare bedroom with tears in his eyes and whispered  _ I don’t want to be alone right now _ ; he was there when Louis cried upon reading his article; he listened to Louis’ voicemails talking about his mother and his loneliness and how scared he was of his intense feelings for Harry.

As though reading his thoughts, Mark sighs. “Louis likes to be strong for the people he loves. He’s fiercely loyal and protective. And if he thinks that someone else’s problems are larger than his own, he’ll ignore his in favor of helping them. Because that’s who he is. When Jay, his mum, died . . . he plowed right on. He was devastated, but never let his siblings see it. He’s always been the rock of this family. But sometimes I’m afraid he’s forgotten how to take care of himself. It builds up inside.” He folds his hands in front of him and turns towards Harry. “And that’s why I need to know . . . can you take care of him? Or at least help him take care of himself?”

Harry wants to say _yes, of course_ _I will_ but the words weigh heavy on his tongue. He’s hardly able to take care of himself, to face his own demons, that the thought of taking on someone else’s burdens feels impossible. But Louis has done it, has been doing it for months, maybe years . . . so why can’t Harry be the one to take care of him? Especially when Louis has helped him so much and done so many things for him that Harry can hardly find the proper words to express his gratitude. 

The thought of taking care of Louis is terrifying. It makes things that much more real.

“Yeah,” he says, resisting the urge to run. “I’ll take care of him.”

And he means it. Of course he does. He would go to the ends of the earth for Louis, would do about anything to see him smile or hear him laugh. Harry is just as gone for him, if not more so.

“Good,” Mark says. And that’s the end of it.

It isn’t until Harry and Louis are lying in Louis’ childhood bedroom that Louis decides to ask him about it. They’re curled up in a cookie monster blanket and lying on worn-out plaid sheets and Harry’s back is pressed against Louis’ chest. This bed is much smaller than the one at the cabin, but somehow they make it work.

Harry doesn’t answer for a long time — so long that Louis runs his finger along Harry’s ribcage and asks again. “What did Mark want to talk to you for?”

“Oh. You know, the standard speech and all that.”

Louis scoffs, warm breath grazing the hairs on Harry’s neck, making him shiver. “I don't know, actually. He wasn’t rude, was he?”

“No, no. Of course not.” Harry lays his hand atop Louis’, sighing when their fingers slot together. “He wanted to know I’d take care of you.”

A long pause follows. An eternity stretches in the darkness. Harry squeezes Louis’ hand, and then, in a small voice, he says, “Oh.”

“I said I would.”

“Okay.” Louis’ heartbeat is thrumming against his skin. 

Harry turns his head around, just barely able to make out Louis’ blue eyes. “I don’t know if I’ll be very good at it. But I’m going to try.”

For the first time, probably since Harry has met Louis, the other man seems to be at a loss for words. He squeezes his hand one more time and continues. “You’ve been taking care of me this whole time, and I didn’t even think . . . I’m sorry if I haven’t been paying attention.”

A choked noise comes out of Louis’ mouth and he lurches towards Harry’s lips, kissing him hard. “You’ve done more than you know.”

He shakes his head. “It doesn’t feel like it. Sometimes I think I make it worse on you.”

Louis laughs shakily. “Not possible. You make everything better. Everyone has their ups and downs, love. But you do take care of me. You make me breakfast and dinner, you give me gifts because you think of me, you’ve been there for me during moments of weakness. I’d say you take care of me. In your own way.”

Harry frowns. “Yeah, I guess. I just want you to feel comfortable to come to me with things. We’ve been working on all my problems. I think, if you want to at least, we should talk about you.”

“What about me?”

“Anything you need.”

Louis reaches for Harry’s waist and pulls him closer, their foreheads knocking together. “I have everything I need.”

The lie is easily detectable, but Harry lets it slide. He’s trying to take notes from Louis’ own book. When Louis is ready and willing to come to him, he will. And if it’s enough for Harry to just be here, then he can do that, too. 

He pecks Louis on the mouth. “Well, keep it in mind, yeah? I want you to know I’m here. You told me you weren’t going anywhere . . . now I’m making the same promise.”

The reality is, Harry doesn’t think he  _ could _ leave. He wouldn’t want to, anyways. Louis, however unwittingly, has become a permanent fixture in Harry’s life. The thought of losing him or leaving him hurts too much for Harry to bear, so he doesn’t linger on it. 

He’s on the verge of sleep, the silence having drawn on long enough, when he hears Louis whisper, faintly, almost to himself. “I’m afraid one day you won’t need me.”

“I’ll always need you,” he replies, voice slurring with sleep. He knows Louis hears him, because the hand on his waist tightens, and there’s a hitch of breath beside him. But if Louis responds, it gets lost in the darkness. 

+++

“Happy birthday, darling.”

The blindfold drops away and Harry finds himself standing in front of a giant white building with a sign that reads ‘The Dome’ hanging above the entrance. Louis is practically bouncing on his toes beside Harry, but Harry’s not really sure what he’s meant to be looking at. He turns to Louis in confusion. “Where are we?”

Louis grins. “My favorite place.”

Harry turns his gaze back towards the building. “Why?”

“I told you I was saving it.” He teases, tangling their fingers together. “This seemed like the right occasion.”

“No, I mean, why is this your favorite place?”

Warmth spreads through Harry’s limbs as Louis beams at him and walks him through the building, explaining the dozens of amenities The Doncaster Dome has and the dozens of childhood memories that are inextricably tied to this place. They walk past an auditorium, a concert hall, a play zone, a gym, and countless restaurants serving an array of different types of food. But Louis doesn’t stop for any of it, opting to drag Harry along by the arm and ramble on endlessly about the time he’d almost got locked inside the building at night because he hid himself in the foam pit of the play zone, or the time he slipped off the diving board at the swimming pool and broke his big toe.

(And Harry asks him which toe. Louis says right. Harry broke that toe, too, after stubbing it against the corner of one of his flat’s walls particularly hard in the middle of the night. He says as much, and Louis hides a laugh in the crook of his elbow. But Harry only smiles. They had both broken their right big toes at one point. Another one of those inexplicable commonalities between them.)

They don’t stop until they reach a large door, where Harry can spot an open ice rink through the opaque windows. Louis turns to face Harry with a blinding smile, bringing their hands up to his chest and holding them there. Harry tries to focus on what Louis is saying instead of the fluttering heartbeat in his palm.

“This is, by far, the best place in the entire Dome. My family and I used to come here at least once a week and go ice skating for hours. So, as you can imagine, I’m devilishly good at it.”

Harry quirks a brow. “Are you going to teach me, then?”

Louis squeezes his hand. “Of course I am. You’ll be a pro in no time.”

“Have you met me? I have two left feet.”

“You do just fine on the dance floor. I have no complaints, at least.” Louis winks, and Harry’s face burns. They both know it’s Louis who does all the work when they dance; but the compliment mollifies him all the same.

The skating rink is nearly empty, which turns out to be a good thing, because ice skating is harder than it looks. Harry slips and falls about twenty times over the next few hours and Louis’ laugh echoes throughout the empty space. He drags Louis down with him at least twice, which makes them both laugh even harder. The bruises will be worth it, Harry thinks. He can’t remember the last time his cheeks hurt this bad.

He starts to get the hang of it, though, and it isn’t until his legs are aching and his body is soaked with sweat that they exit the rink. They return their skates and Louis leads them to a restaurant inside the Dome itself, where they share a plate of chips (most of which end up on the floor after Louis ignites a chip-pelting war) and chat and laugh over dinner, their knees knocking beneath the tabletop. Louis orders them a milkshake to share and Harry can’t help but feel like he’s in the plot of a romance movie.

“I’ve got one more big event planned,” Louis says over a mouthful of vanilla ice cream. And Harry can’t do anything more than nod. 

He follows Louis into the empty theater space, noting the handful of cash he passes to the person stationed at the doors, and is about to ask Louis about it, but the words die as soon as they enter. Because Louis is absolutely fucking mad. The theater is pitch black, save a single spotlight on the wooden stage shining over a pile of blankets and pillows, a bottle of wine, and a row of flickering candles. A line of flower petals (carrnations, of course) mark a path to the stage.

The sight is enough to bring tears to Harry’s eyes. He tries to wipe them away quickly, before Louis notices, but of course he notices. Louis notices everything.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, bringing Harry’s knuckles to his lips. 

Harry shakes his head, at a loss for words. Every day with Louis brings more surprises. This is simply one of those moments where Harry can’t believe that Louis picked him, or how he got so lucky. With everything he’s been through, every moment with Louis feels like a pinch-me moment. (And Harry  _ has _ pinched himself. Many times.)

“Happy tears, I hope?” Louis tries again. Harry nods. 

It isn’t until they’ve settled into the makeshift bed, glasses of wine in their hands (significantly less for Harry — he’s doing better at cutting down his drinking), that he finds the words.

“Nobody has ever made . . . gestures, like this. For me.”

Louis makes an affronted noise. “Well, you deserve this and more. I haven’t even pulled out the big guns yet.”

“Really?” He looks around the room. “This is practically premeditated seduction, right here.”

“Isn’t all seduction premeditated?” 

Harry groans. “That’s not the point.”

“If you’re asking if I’m trying to seduce you, the answer is yes. Obviously.” Louis grins over the rim of his glass. 

It’s meant to be a joke, but the words settle between them regardless. Harry leans forward and places his palms flat on Louis’ thighs. “Well, it’s working. Obviously.”

“Yeah?”

Harry kneads his thumbs against the fabric of Louis’ jeans. “Yeah.”

Maybe it’s the sharp intake of breath, or the way Louis licks his lips, or the tensing of his thighs beneath Harry’s hands . . . but something inside Harry snaps. He lurches forward, curling his hands around Louis’ hips and pulling him forward, nearly sending the bottle of wine toppling over. Louis giggles against his lips and his hands get lost in Harry’s hair. He tastes sharp and rich — like Cabernet and ice cream. Harry presses closer until Louis is practically lying down in the pillows, the light from the candles dancing and stretching along the sharp edges of his face.

Louis' hand rests along Harry’s sternum, pushing slightly. He’s panting when Harry breaks free. “What? You don’t want to see the rest of the surprise?”

A beat passes before Harry can fully comprehend what Louis is saying. “There’s more?”

“Of course there is.” 

And then Louis is getting up, turning off the spotlight, and walking over towards the middle of the room where a large globe-shaped contraption sits. Harry watches in wonder as he fiddles with various knobs, and then a light is coming on, and all around them are speckles and fragments of lights penetrating the darkness. Stars. A trillion-trillion stars winking at them, bringing the cold vacuum of space inside and warming it. Each star projection is like a tiny, crackling fire. Harry can feel their warmth. Or perhaps that’s just Louis.

He stares at Louis as he comes back to sit beside him. “I can’t believe you.”

Louis smirks. “What do you mean?”

“You stole this from Friends. You  _ are _ seducing me.”

“Yes, well. I still refuse to be Ross.”

“You’ll always be Monica to me.” 

“You flatter me.” Louis bats his eyelashes, pouting his wine-red lips.

And once again, Harry is losing his mind. “Oh, shut up.”

[ [ Easily by Bruno Major ](https://youtu.be/Gwz76uKFqAI) ]

The past few days, since their brief fight and subsequent make up, Louis has been the one making Harry feel good, taking him in his hands or his mouth and coaxing Harry to the edge. And Harry gets too distracted, too speechless, and by the time his mind comes back to him, Louis has already finished himself off, kissing Harry’s protests away.

But Harry wants to take Louis apart himself. He wants to watch all the ways his touch can drive Louis wild. He wants to make Louis squirm beneath him and beg for release and whisper Harry’s name on his lips, just like that night in the bathroom. But this time they can touch.

Louis’ eyes flutter the moment Harry palms him through his trousers. “You don’t have to.”

And Harry is absolutely gone, because Louis never stops thinking about Harry and what Harry needs and wants. He’s a caretaker. That’s how his mind works. But for once, Harry needs to take care of him. To show him how special he is.

“I want to.” He breathes. Because it’s getting easier to say these things. The words are liberating, in a way. Like he’s speaking them into existence. A manifestation of his feelings. Or perhaps something more akin to a prayer. Desperate and wanting, but gaining confidence each time it happens. 

(Like this morning, when Louis had been making Harry breakfast and Harry was leaning against the countertop, watching. The sudden urge to kiss Louis had hit him fast and hard. And it’s not like he’d never initiated their kisses before, but  _ doing _ and  _ saying _ were two different things. They had briefly made eye contact and Harry said, with clear conviction, “Kiss me,” and Louis had nearly dropped the spatula to the floor in his initial shock, and then again in his consequent haste to fulfill Harry’s request.)

“It’s your birthday, love. Let me—”

Harry squeezes and Louis gasps. “My birthday, my choice.” 

The look on Louis’ face is that of pure amazement. “Jesus. Yes. Okay.”

He can’t help it. His mouth twists to hold back his laughter. “I thought we established that I’m Harry. Not Jesus.”

Louis blinks, and then doubles into laughter alongside Harry, and any tension that may have been present is dissipated. Harry works quickly, yanking off articles of clothing until they are both stark naked; he flicks his wrist, experimentally, and Louis arches his back, his laughter devolving into nothing more than a collection of pants and whimpers as Harry thumbs the tip and squeezes his balls and works him up. 

“Good?” Harry asks. Tries to hide the flicker of uncertainty. It’s been so long. He doesn’t know if he’s doing it right, or what Louis likes— 

—but Louis groans. “Fuck. Yeah. Of course.”

The fact that he can cause Louis to speak in such a stilted manner with nothing but his hands is all the encouragement Harry needs to keep going. He sucks a trail down his chest, nuzzling at Louis’ hip bones and digging his thumbs into the dips in his thighs. It isn’t until Louis is sufficiently squirming beneath him that Harry goes down on him, all the way, until his nose is pressed against the dark hairs of Louis’ groin and his jaw is aching. And Louis releases a string of expletives so colorful that Harry can’t help but laugh, the vibrations surprising Louis and causing a rather high-pitched squeak to leave his throat. 

He feels like a teenager again. Losing himself in the pleasure. Eager to make Louis feel good. He’s giddy with it, drunk on it. And doing what they’re doing, here in this public space, adds to the thrill. Reminds him of the hushed whispers and fumbling hands of the boys he used to sneak into his room while his family was home.

He breaks away and surges towards Louis’ lips, his fingers finding Louis’ hair and tugging experimentally, drawing encouraging noises from the back of Louis’ throat before Harry keeps going. It’s fast and messy and giggly. Everything that Harry imagined. Louis comes with Harry’s name on his lips while Harry swallows him whole.

_ Baby steps, _ Harry thinks. This might be called one. But for him, it’s monumental. Lying here, allowing Louis to see him naked and to touch him, and to touch Louis in return. To share their pleasure and take care of one another. The vulnerability — the sheer amount of exposure — is something Harry hasn’t experienced in quite some time. 

He smiles; because for the first time — maybe ever — he can state, without a doubt, that he’s happy. Blissfully, stupidly, insufferably happy. He knows it when he glances up at Louis through his eyelashes, knows it when Louis tangles his fingers in Harry’s hair, knows it when those three words are whispered in his ear. Again, like a prayer. Or a song. Or a hymn. He can’t decide. But he knows that this moment should scare him. He should be locking up or pulling away or pretending that he didn’t hear Louis’ admission. But he only smiles, kissing Louis softly.

He doesn’t say it back (it’s one of those unspoken truths he hasn’t found the courage to admit yet) but the truth exists. And that’s enough for now.

+++

The beginning of spring means the beginning of playoff season, which means Louis and Harry see each other less. And after two months of living in each other’s pockets, it’s strange. He almost can’t believe that March is already here, that Louis has stayed with him this long. He was sure that he would have sent Louis running and screaming by now. But every morning that he wakes up and every evening that he falls asleep in Louis’ arms is a small — but massive — victory. 

Two days ago was the Rovers’ first game in the playoffs, set against Portsmouth; Harry had nearly forgotten how much of a menace Louis is on the field. He had broken through the other teams defenses within the first half, bringing the Rovers to a two-point lead and keeping them there for the remainder of the game. They won by a landslide (4-2). 

Without thinking about it, Harry had run out towards Louis’ spot on the field, picking him up in his arms and spinning him in a circle and peppering kisses all along his cheeks and jaw and nose. He didn’t care that the photographers and cameras caught their display; if anything, it spurred him on more. He was swelling with untold pride for Louis, wanting to not only show Louis how proud he was, but the whole entire fucking world. 

Louis had only giggled against his lips, moving one of his hands towards the onslaught of media who had zeroed in on them, flipping them off while he and Harry continued celebrating. 

Now they’re in Holmes Chapel, and Louis is in Harry’s room under the guise of ‘spring cleaning.’ Despite the fact that Harry’s room is well-kept, for the most part, and he cleans it weekly, Louis is insistent that they purge themselves of the clutter in their lives. (He recently read Marie Kondo’s book, though he won’t admit it. But Harry had seen the book hidden away beneath Louis’ pillow, with notes scratched into the margins.) 

There’s various piles of clothes on the floor — one for donating, one for tossing, and one for keeping — while Louis rummages through the crowded hangers in Harry’s closet. And yeah, Harry can admit he has a lot of clothes, so he sits on the bed and lets Louis pull each piece out one-by-one. They bicker over a few sweaters that Harry can’t let go of, but Harry ends up winning in the end and smiling triumphantly. The ‘Keep’ pile is dangerously high now. Louis points this out, but Harry shakes his head and gestures for him to drop his ‘My Life is Crap’ sweater onto the tower. 

It isn’t until the closet is mostly empty that Louis pauses. “What’s this?”

Harry, who is carefully folding all of the items he decided to give away, hums. “What’s what?”

“ _ This _ .” 

He flicks his gaze upwards, and freezes. It’s the painting of Louis that Liam had painted for Harry. God, he had forgotten that he shoved it back there. Seeing it again is strange, especially with Louis standing here in person and holding it in front of himself. 

“Um.” 

Louis cocks his head. “I mean I’m flattered you have a giant painting of my head, but . . .” 

“Uh, Liam painted it. Actually.”

The painting is just as beautiful as he remembers — maybe moreso. Not as beautiful as the real deal, of course, but close. The whorling blue eyes and bubblegum pink lips; the feathery brown hair that Harry recognizes as Louis’ bedhead and post-football hair; the various shades of olive skin that accentuate the hollow of his cheeks and the length of his neck. 

But it misses details. It doesn’t have the faint smattering of freckles along Louis’ cheekbones that form constellations or the natural bronze dusting his eyelids or his little snaggle tooth or the shallow dimples when he smiles. There are so many little things that Harry hadn't realized he’d catalogued and memorized; all the parts of Louis that make him that much more beautiful.

Like right now, for example. The way his face scrunches up when Harry does something he’s particularly fond of, as though he’s struggling to hold it all inside. “Ah. I kind of figured you went to him.”

Harry loses the air inside his lungs. “You did?”

Louis shrugs. “I mean, when you asked me whether I’d gone, I got the feeling that you had. I didn’t want to say anything though. You seemed pretty spooked by it. I was waiting for you to be ready.”

“So . . . did you—” 

“No. I was telling the truth. I don’t have a painting of you,” he gazes thoughtfully at his painted face. “Though now I’m sort of wishing I did. Liam is quite talented.”

“Oh.” The disappointment comes without permission. He had been harboring the secret hope that Louis had gotten a painting as well, and that he’d gotten Harry. Maybe then, the entire soulmate idea might be more believable for him.

“Actually, Liam refused to paint for me. At least now I know why.” 

“What do you mean?”

Louis snorts. “Well he can’t be unbiased painting for me when he painted this for you, now can he?” 

In all honesty, Harry had never thought of it like that. But it makes sense. Liam wouldn’t be able to paint for Louis without having the thought of Harry in the back of his mind. Harry doesn’t even know if it’s possible for two people to end up with different soulmate paintings. Which makes it somewhat of a relief. He wouldn’t know how to handle it if Louis got a painting that wasn’t of him.

“I thought you didn’t believe in soulmates.” The question in the statement rings in the air.  _ Do you believe in them  _ now _?  _

“I didn’t.” 

“Didn’t?” He keeps pushing. He needs to know.

Louis sighs and shrugs, staring down at the painting. “Well, it’s kind of mad that we met each other at all. And when I first saw you, it was like the world slowed down — which admittedly, is rather funny looking back, because I saw you right as you were spilling coffee all over yourself. But, I don’t know. I was drawn to you.”

“If it helps, we only met because Niall orchestrated the entire charity match so we could. He loves playing matchmaker.”

Under his breath, Louis swears. “That sneaky bastard.”

Harry wrings his hands. “I thought you might be upset.”

“About the painting?” 

“That I kept it from you.”

Louis shakes his head, his hair falling over his eyes. “Nah. I get it. I mean, I told you I didn’t quite believe at the beginning. I imagine that put you off it.”

“A bit, yeah.”

He sends a soft smile at Harry, leaning the painting against the open closet door and shuffling towards him until his chin is resting on Harry’s knee. “You know, I don’t care about the whole soulmate thing. But I think, if anyone were to be my soulmate, it would be you.”

Harry drags his thumb along Louis’ bottom lip. “You think so?”

“Oh, I know so.” He kisses Harry’s thumb. “You tend to understand me better than most. Even if you don’t think you do.”

He’s finding it difficult to speak past the lump wedging itself in his throat. Harry had mostly given up on the thoughts of soulmates and what if’s, but now that Louis is sitting here, telling Harry that he thinks Harry is his soulmate . . . it brings all of those repressed emotions back.

And of course Harry feels the same. Out of everyone in the world, Louis is the one who knows him best. (Maybe even better than Niall.) Because he’s attuned to Harry in a way nobody else has achieved. After the rough beginning and handful of misses, Louis proved to be quick on the uptake. He’s learned how to decipher Harry’s moods without Harry even needing to speak; he’s learned how to tell when Harry is on the verge of a panic attack, long before Harry knows himself (he’s only had two more since Noah’s visit, which is progress); and he’s learned when Harry needs space and when he needs no space at all. He knows how to draw Harry out of his shell, where to touch him to leave him breathless, what to say in those moments where the dark cloud draws nearer. 

Louis knows Harry better than Harry knows himself. And it should be terrifying, but it isn’t. If anything, it’s comforting.

“I think it goes without saying that you understand me more than anyone else. Probably more than myself.” Harry manages to get the words out. Barely.

Hands come up to cradle his face and Harry sinks into the touch. Louis lifts himself up so that he’s sitting in Harry’s lap and pressing their foreheads together. The proximity — even after two months of it — makes Harry dizzy. Because Louis is intoxicating; a drug that Harry won’t ever build a tolerance for. Will always be addicted to.

“Hmm.” Louis hums, kissing Harry’s nose. “That’s what soulmates are for, right?”

+++

Liam’s shop is busier than usual when Harry and Louis enter. Almost as busy as it had been the first couple times Harry had visited. The déj à vu hits him strong, despite him not being a client this time around. The crowd of adoring fans lean against the windows, hot breath puffing on the glass, and Harry recalls when he’d come here to interview Liam and the two of them had laughed over it.

The memory feels ancient, as though it happened ages ago, when it’s only been a little over five months. Four months since he met Louis. Two months of officially dating. It’s surreal, thinking that half a year ago he had been living completely different, not knowing Louis or Liam or Zayn, when now he can hardly imagine life without them.

Instead of heading upstairs, Harry leads the way towards the back of the store, noting the piles of empty canvases, but also the new collection of paintings hanging on the walls and leaning against the bookshelves, the fairy lights illuminating the space in a familiar, comfortable way. Liam’s music is playing over the speakers — and, yeah, the  déj à vu is impossible to ignore. It’s a piano piece, reminiscent of the festive tune Liam had plinked out on Christmas Eve.

Louis squeezes his hand and smiles when Harry turns towards him. “You with me?”

“I’m remembering the day I first came in here. Everything looks pretty much the same, despite everything being different. ‘S weird.” Harry shrugs one shoulder. An attempt to appear nonchalant. Though he doesn’t think he pulls it off.

“Yeah, I imagine it’s weird.” Louis’ free hand comes up to brush a piece of lint from Harry’s sweater (the same sweater he’d been wearing the day they met — per Louis’ special request).

“Oi, are you two ready?” Liam’s voice echoes throughout the room, coming from somewhere behind the curtain.

Harry remembers the first time he heard Liam’s voice, how strange it sounded. Now it serves as a piece of comfort; familiarity. (He’s being sentimental right now, he realizes. But it’s hard not to be. This is where it all started for him. For them.)

Louis’ laugh tinkles in the small space. “Yeah, yeah, Li.”

For reasons unbeknownst to him, a bundle of nerves has solidified in Harry’s stomach. And it’s stupid, because Louis is here to get a painting of Harry, and nobody else. But underneath his calm exterior, Harry’s insides are squirming. He’s learning to talk himself down and breathe through it — Brenda says he’s made great strides these past two months — but at moments like this, the anxiety returns. 

They slip through the thick curtain to find Liam seated in his usual spot with a blank canvas standing beside him. His roll of brushes and paint palettes are as meticulously laid out as before. He waves at the pair of them with a gentle smile, his frock splattered with an array of pink and blue and green and brown. Harry focuses on the colors to steady himself. Louis squeezes his hand again.

The couch sinks with their weight. Liam picks up a thin brush. “You want me to paint Harry as he looks right now?”

Louis tips his head. “Yes and no. If you remember, he wore this sweater the first day we met.”

Liam nods, a glint of understanding in his eyes. “Ah, so you want me to recreate how he looked that day?”

“Yes.”

“Coffee stains and all?”

Harry splutters in protest while Louis throws his head back in laughter. “Please, no. I’d rather not relive the embarrassment.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Fine. Pre-coffee stains.”

The room falls silent once they settle on what Louis wants, save the soft brush strokes and the rapid sonata ringing in the air. Harry swears he can hear the crowd outside yelling for Liam and knocking against the windows, but Liam doesn’t pay them any attention.

“How did you gain all your customers back?” He winces. He didn’t mean for it to come out as rude.

But Liam only shrugs half-heartedly. “George paid for some adverts.”

Harry pauses. “Did you two make up then?”

“I wouldn’t say we’ve made up. But he’s trying. So I figure I ought to give him a chance, you know?” Liam worries at his lip, but his eyes don’t stray from the canvas.

“Good on you, Li,” Louis says.

“Thanks.”

“How does this all work, anyway? You never explained it to me.” Louis asks. The paintbrush in Liam’s hand slows and he and Harry share a significant look. 

“Harry knows.”

Louis glances his way. “And you didn’t say anything?”

“I wrote an article on it.” Harry shrugs.

“Must’ve missed that one.”

He sighs. “Basically, Liam said it’s like putting a puzzle together. And each painting comes together differently. But the more he paints, the more pieces that fit together. Some images are clearer, while others take longer to complete.”

“And yours?”

Liam makes an explosion noise, flicking a bit of brown paint onto his cheek. Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Apparently, it was one of the clearer images.”

“You’re too modest, Harry,” Liam says. “Yours was quite vivid. And very messy.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Louis bounces on the cushion. “Is it . . . you know, still possible for you to get those images, even though I  _ asked _ you to paint Harry?”

“You mean, am I painting Harry as your soulmate or as your boyfriend?” Liam smirks and raises an eyebrow. When Louis ducks his head, he laughs. “I guess there’s no way to know for sure.”

“Oh.”

“But Harry did get a painting of you, long before you met.”

“Yeah, but I’m like . . .” Louis trails off, then mumbles, “famous and stuff.”

This time, Harry does roll his eyes. “Gee, I had no idea.”

Liam shrugs again. “ _ I _ didn’t know you were famous. I wasn’t big on footy before.”

Harry’s body is sighing in relief. He hadn’t realized how much he wanted to (or needed to) hear those words until now. “I thought you were taking the piss out of me when I first got it. Not gonna lie.”

“Nah. I wouldn’t mess with a client like that.”

His eye catches on a painting behind Liam’s head; it’s the one he’d been painting of Zayn laying in the nude on his bed. “Is that why you refused to paint for Zayn?”

It makes sense, if Liam and Zayn are soulmates; Liam would have seen his own image reflected back at him. And he couldn’t have painted something like that for Zayn without Zayn getting the wrong impression. The fact that they were drawn together — likely in the same way Harry and Louis were — is proof enough. But Harry still wonders.

Liam turns to follow Harry’s gaze, eyes softening when he sees the painting. “I didn’t see a thing when Zayn walked into the shop, which kind of clued me in. It either meant that he had no soulmate — which I have never encountered with anyone else — or he was mine. I took a chance.”

The couch creaks as Louis leans forward, hands clasped together. “What did you see when  _ I _ walked in?”

And Harry didn’t expect Louis to be so . . . hopeful. He had said, before leaving the flat, that he didn’t care whether they were soulmates or not; he only wanted a painting of Harry because Harry was who he wanted, and he wanted them both to have one. But looking at him now, it’s obvious that he’s curious. Even if he claims not to care, there will always be that underlying question of  _ what if _ .

The piano crescendos while Liam eyes them both, contemplative. “I guess you’ll never know.”

Louis groans. “Are you serious?”

But Harry places a gentle hand on his knee, waiting until Louis gives him his attention. He’s having one of those feelings again — like nothing else will ever make him as warm or as happy or as content as when he’s with Louis. It’s a constant reminder. Even when the doubt creeps in these days, it doesn’t last for long.

This thing between them is electric. Adamantine. Cosmic. A love story written on a whim by the gods, designed to inflict pain and strip them of their power. But succeeding in the opposite. He digs his fingers into Louis’ knee, a reminder that he’s real. They are real. He has not four, but eight limbs now. Not one, but two hearts.

“I think I know.” 


End file.
